


Conscription

by clandestineClairvoyant



Series: Inquisitor!Hawke-verse (But not the one you're thinking of.) [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Inquisitor!carver, Multi, Other, You don't have to read the first part!, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:13:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineClairvoyant/pseuds/clandestineClairvoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Carver knew how easily people flocked to a good cause, he might not have thought his brother was so impressive with his motley crew of apostates, rogues and thugs.</p><p> Or how to gain a following and lose something important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hinterlands

**Author's Note:**

> You don't really have to read the first part, since everyone and their mother has rewritten the opening scene of Inquisition with their favorite Dragon Age characters, and I'm sure you all know the song and dance by now.
> 
> Just know Carver Hawke is Inquisitor, he's getting better at it, and I really _really_ love Templars.

The first Rift that they _don’t_ manage to close is like ash in Carver’s mouth.

Bitter, dry, and leaves him coughing with his hands on his knees for far after the fact.

It’s been months so far, halfway through the harvest season, and they’ve barely managed to begin cleaning up the valley below Haven. Rifts still open and pouring out demons, mages and Templars still steadfastly fighting despite hunger and sickness, villagers and families turning to banditry in desperation. It’s enough to make a man want to break something.

They’ve managed to help _some_ people at least, and word of the Inquisition has spread like wildfire among the little folk. It certainly helps when people aren’t _hiding_ when they see the flag coming down the way, and Carver can actually talk to people about what needs doing. Most often it’s rifts. Sometimes though, for some unfathomable reason, people feel the need to ask him to run errands, or find rings; Or bargain with _goats._

He still wasn’t sure about that goat.

 

“Easy junior- You okay?” Carver feels a hand pound his back, and waves it away irritably, trying to draw a rattling breath past a windpipe that feels like a wad of cotton someone stepped on too long. He knows he looks like an idiot, but he ignores it in favor of enjoying actual _air_.

“I’m sodding _fantastic._ ” He finally gasps out, after more than a minute of this, rubbing his chest to try and get the feeling back into it. It feels like he must have rattled a bloody rib loose, at the very least, with all of that damned coughing.  
His breastplate is loosened to allow a hand access, and Solas is carefully feeling along his back with cool, gentle fingers. He insists on checking for any permanent damage, so Carver tries not to squirm too much in embarrassment as Varric and Cassandra look on, knowing it’s easier if he just lets the elf do what he wants rather than argue about him being _fine._

Which he _is._

He shivers crossly until the elf nods, giving him a pat on the shoulder. Like a sodding _horse._

“The despair demon managed to avoid anything vital- And the fluid in your lungs has all but been removed. I would recommend seeing the healer when we return however- My experience in these matters is limited.” The elf brushes his hand off on his robes, and Carver rolls his eyes slightly.

“Yeah. Thanks mate.” He grudgingly offers, groaning as he straightens up. Most of his focus is on trying to keep his throat from rasping. His limbs are still trembling slightly, and he’s pretty sure he’s _never_ going to be warm again.

Maker take blighted _despair demons._

 

The Rift glows on in the canyon behind them, light shining off of the water and throwing crazed reflections up along the brown sandstone surrounding it. Carver can barely make out the smoky, outlined edges of despair demons above the water, drifting aimlessly now that Carver’s party had retreated. One had managed to get a lucky shot in, a pillar of ice getting past Solas’ barrier to slam into Carver, denting his breastplate, and pinning him underneath the shallow water gathered in the bottom of the sandstone canyon. It had been a random spell, one that Carver would normally be able to roll out of the way of- Or dispell. However the water had slowed him down, catching on his legs like so many hands, and he’s lucky he hadn’t gotten speared through his sodding head.

It had taken far too long to get him _out_ of the water; Cassandra, Solas, and Varric had to take out the the demons left, and chip away the ice crusted unto his armor and freezing him to the riverbed before they could get him out, using a hunting knife and the edge of Cassandra’s shield. All the while he desperately strained and sucked a few mouthfuls of air from the wildly chopping water’s surface, half frozen and reaching to try and grasp the sword he’d dropped not four inches from his fingers.

All of that trouble, and he’s going to get killed by some otherworldy ponce in a _dress._

They were quick about it, all things considered, but Carver is still gagging out muddy water, and fighting to stay conscious when they get him out. He credits all those nights traipsing around Darktown, and the sewers _under_ Darktown, for his impressive lung capacity. He still wishes Solas knew a few fire spells though, as he shivers and dries in the autumn air.

“So….” Varric offers, giving Carver one last friendly shake that almost knocks the human over. “ _That_ road to Redcliffe is off limits.”

“No, it’s very well _not-_ ” Carver starts, in the middle of strapping his dripping, muddy chestplate back on. But Cassandra’s giving the Rift a thoughtful look, and shaking her head. “I’m afraid so- We have more supplies back at Haven we can use to get by, but for now we will have to find another route. Perhaps further east.”

“We can try again!" Carver insists, feeling embarrassed, and a little bit useless. " I’m _fine_ if that’s what you’re getting at-“

“It’s not, although I’m glad to know that you think I care that much about how you feel.” Cassandra sniffs, and Carver resists the urge to slop some of the mud caking his back down her front.

“We can always go through Dennet’s on the way back- Give him an update on those watchtowers.” Varric offers, and Carver tries not to sigh.

“... Fine. We’ll go see about the _horses._ ”

Varric’s already walking back the road they came, and grinning. “What, you don’t like horses Ferelden? Color me shocked.”

“Bite me Varric- I just don’t see why we have to be running _errands_.” Carver grumbles, the lot of them trooping back up the roads to begin the long hike back towards town. And no, he _doesn’t_ like horses. Big stupid creatures, that stepped on toes and bucked you off at first opportunity. He’d prefer to _walk_ thanks, even with half a lung and demons infesting the forest.

Thankfully, the ground is even and the day is clear, simply the smallest crisp bit of mountain air keeping their sweaty faces cool. The sun warms the tops of their heads, and Carver soaks it up while he can. Before they have to go back up the mountains, where it seemed like there was always at least three inches of snow waiting outside his door when he woke up in the morning.

“We lack the manpower to send the men out on such things- And also it’s good for the people to see you.” Cassandra says, in the slightly snappish tone of someone who has already said it many times before.

But she seems in a much better mood than she has in days past, now that they’re out doing something. She’d been pacing the training yards any time they weren’t out smashing demons and upending Templar encampments- Negotiations with the Chantry had _not_ been going over well, according to Varric.

“What- So they can remember that the ‘Herald’ is with the Inquisition.” Carver snorts, still slightly uncomfortable with the idea that he’s the face of a religious movement. (He hopes Garret hasn’t found out yet. He doesn’t think losing his last remaining family member- besides Gamlen- to a _laughing fit_ will improve the Inquisitions reputation.)

People in towns and taverns still stopped him when they were out, and asked for his blessing. Which was _weird_. He’d say the canticle of Light, the one he knew best, wave his hand around like a tit (not the glowy one, they didn’t much like that), and they’d be on their way happy as anything.

Bizarre.

“It does not _hurt_ our image for you to be seen doing the Inquisition’s work.” Cassandra admits, giving a reluctant smile. “And if it gets you out of Haven- where you don’t get under anybody else’s feet-”

Carver, who _knows_ this isn’t true, makes a small indignant noise while Varric laughs. “Hey, I don’t _get under foot_ -“

Solas, who hasn’t spoken up until this moment, gives a small polite cough into his hand, and Carver blushes.

“Alright, so I smashed that rack of potions-“

“And need I remind you, yet again, that training dummies do not grow on trees?”

“They’re made of _wood_ , aren’t they?” Carver mutters sullenly, face still slightly red.

“It’s alright Junior, now we just know we have to take you for walkies beforehand- Tiring them out _before_ bad behavior occurs is very important to the development of good training habits.“ Varric informs Cassandra, who simply ignores them both in favor of making her way up a particularly tiring incline.

Carver spends the next quarter of a mile trying to shove Varric in the river, but the bastard is light on his feet.

 

As they make their way back to talk to Dennet, there’s long moments of companionable silence, and Carver has time to think about it. He _does_ like helping out around the Hinterlands. Horses be damned.

It’s a muddy, bear ridden slash of land in the Frostback mountains, surrounded by dreary cold, wet, with a blighted _dragon_ living in the bottom of it like an engorged Deepstalker; But the people here were so thankful for the occupation of the Inquisition, it was hard to hate it. He’d had no less than three free meals on this expedition _alone_ \- And some girl kissed him on the mouth in a tavern when he’d turned to get a drink, leaving him red faced and gobsmacked.

She’d been pretty enough, and gave him a bright grin and a thank you before shoving his order in his hands and fleeing to the kitchen, leaving half the bar whooping and Varric leaning against a table to hold himself up against what Carver uncharitably thought of as a giggle fit.  
Hard to get upset about running errands when you got _that_ kind of treatment. Not to mention he was doing his favorite things; Thumping demons, and fighting blood mages.

And the air _was_ bracing.

 

They get ahold of Dennet, and the man’s surly and brisk but finally agrees now that they have the watchtowers up to lead some horses up the mountain. They’re going to need to build some bigger stables to keep the rest, but for now Cassandra simply chooses a brace to be sent by Dennet’s stable hands. Enough to help the scouts, and for the Herald and his people.

Carver doesn’t even try to keep from making a face, his eyes narrowing suspiciously at the large dark horse whickering against the railing.

It’s another half day’s journey from Dennet’s sweet-smelling stables all the way to Haven, and Carver’s glad they had an early start that day as the lights of their outpost comes into view. He’s _exhausted._ And now that he has time to allow himself to breathe, he feels a small cough starting in his chest that makes him want to curl up somewhere warm with a bottle of something strong and sleep it off.

“Get plenty of rest- We’re leading a party to a Orlais in the morning.” Cassandra tells him briskly as they begin to part ways at the gates, already eagerly unstrapping armor and unbuckling packs. Carver doesn’t try to hide his groan. The ensuing argument is immediate and merciless. “Mother Giselle says it’s important, even if _you_ seem to think you are better than silly pandering-“

“Maker’s breath, this is our tenth day without a rest!” He informs her, trying not to sound bad-tempered. And probably failing. “And we’re going to _Orlais?_ They want to _kill me_ there.”

“Just to Val Royeaux. It’s only a three day journey, now that we have horses. We will shut that rift before we leave, if only to give the scouts a safe passage to Redcliffe.”

Carver’s not one to shirk duty, but he has blisters in his boot’s that have gone beyond _popping_ , and have been leaving gory red streaks on his socks for _days_. His chest is aching, and his armor could probably use some repairs. Especially after the beating it took today,  
And he _knows_ he heard Bianca twang at some point today- Old girl probably needs a tune up.

“A day’s rest won’t hurt us, Seeker.” Solas says, possibly thinking the same thing. “The Rifts are not going to get any more stable if we take one night to gather ourselves.”

“The Breach is not going to wait for us to-“

“We need a rest Cassandra.” Carver interrupts firmly, and she snaps her mouth shut indignantly. Carver himself is slightly taken aback by his gall, but remains certain, crossing his arms.

“I hate to say it Seeker,” Varric offers, even though Carver knows he’s a _liar_ , and he _loves_ to disagree with Cassandra, “But the kid’s right. You’re not going to help anyone by running us into the ground. And Orlais isn’t going to be impressed by…” He stops to looks at Carver, who’s pale, mud-stained, and has a black bruise covering half of his face from the bed of the river.  
Not to mention the _many_ bloodstains and ichor splashed across his talberd and gauntlets.

Varric simply trails off, and holds a hand out to take the whole image in, leaving Carver frowning, and not entirely sure if he should protest.

Cassandra turns to Solas, but the elf simply taps his chin thoughtfully. “I _could_ use the time to decipher some of the manuscripts we got off of those mage rebels- I feel like they point to a cache out in the Hinterlands, but I’d have to consult with Leliana to be sure.” The elf smiles ruefully. “My mage code is slightly rusty.”

“Fine.” Cassandra bites out, thumping her shield onto her back. She gives Carver a slightly angry look, turning to stalk off towards the Chantry. “We will have a _day off_. Only because I agree that we can use some time for repairs-But the next day we _will_ close that rift, and make our way to Val Royeaux. I will have some of the soldiers go out and requisition the necessary supplies for the quarry, and _after_ -” She holds a finger up warningly over her shoulder. “We go to Orlais.”

“That’s fine- Don’t get me unless the place is burning down.” Carver grumbles the last to the Seeker’s back, and Varric laughs loudly, giving Carver a grin. He’s worn down, and as Varric watches he drags a hand over his face, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Drinks?” He offers, already turning on heel to head towards The Singing Maiden.

“Maker’s bloody blessed _cock, yes._ ”

 

######

 

It’s night time, and doesn’t _that_ come as a shock. He leaves the training yards for one brief moment, and the sun slips away like it was practically waiting for him to forget about it.

Cullen rests his head in his hands, elbows on his desk and a small, almost inaudible groan escaping him. Practically a sigh. His eyes are burning from over use, and he rests them for just a moment, .

“… Ser?”

He forgot that one of Leliana’s spies was there.

_Why_ she insists on him having one on hand, he doesn’t know. But they did come in handy for errands, so he tried not to bristle too much at the apparent hand holding. They also weren’t bad company, although he occasionally had trouble telling them apart with their gray green hoods, identically shod boots and coats, and leather harnesses bristling with knives and arrows.

“Nothing Riala.” He tells today’s shadow, placing his fingertips to either side of the bridge of his nose and letting out a small sigh. Light pulsed in the dark behind his eyes, and he tries not to let it make him dizzy. _Just a few more hours_ , he tells himself, _and I’ll take a rest._ “Just a head ache.”

The hooded shape looks up from her position by the door, where she’d been apparently writing a report on her knee. If it _was_ a report. Cullen wasn’t entirely sure if Leliana’s little birds actually _knew_ a secret code. And if they did, he was suspiciously sure it changed on a weekly basis.

He didn’t know if Leliana’s network was _just_ that good. Or that they were perhaps attempting unanimously to pull his leg while trying to look busy in his office.

“Perhaps a break then?”

He smiles ruefully at her, and shakes his head. “You know as well as I how the paperwork stacks up.” He sighs and leans back from the table, cracking his back. “And there’s still the quarry requisitions, as well as Dennet’s stable appointments-“

“I can handle the requisitions Commander, I don’t mind. And you know as well as I that Dennet will appoint his _own_ stables.”

“Yes- well-“ When did she learn his schedule so well? “There’s the soldiers roster-“

“Already done until next week. It’s not due until two days after tomorrow.”

Cullen blinks at her. “The geological surveys?”

“The Herald has appointed a requisition surveyor to join him on field excursions for the purpose- And to lighten your work load.” The girl’s face is hooded, but Cullen’s sure he sees a small secret smile curving the shape of her cowl. “What was it that he said?... Oh yes, ‘If he works his arse any harder, it’s going to be nothing but bone and then what will Lady Josephine and Leliana look at all day?’”

Cullen flushes bright crimson. “He did _not_.”

The scout gives a small amused hum, still scribbling in her report. “Well. Not _officially.”_

Cullen very determinedly tries not to think of where Leliana’s little birds may have heard _that._ Maker’s Breath.

The girl (?) hardly looks at him, and he finds himself grasping for excuses, for no particular reason but the fact that he doesn’t much care for Leliana’s implications. It seems every… _babysitter_ , he has seems determined to find new ways to make him take a break, and he chafes under it. This new method of doing his work before he can get to it is proving most effective, however. “I just- I find it hard to-“

“Ser. With all due respect, I think you can take a break.” _Respect_ the girl says. He huffs lightly. “It’s almost midnight.”

Cullen is briefly surprised, and tries to keep the expression off of his face, although he’s sure he fails miserably. Is it really that late? “You can go have a pint.” There’s a small silence as Cullen is torn with indecision. The spy simply mutters a quick note under her breath, unbothered as her quill scratches across the parchment.

“And I hear the Herald is back for a day or two.” She adds, like an after thought. Not as if she'd seen Cullen glancing out the window all day, eyebrows drawn together and gloved hand tapping against the desk.

It goes unspoken that he would probably be found in the tavern. Much to the Inquisition’s soldiers delight, the Herald of Andraste is quite the partaker of drink- There’s already a few tavern songs about it. It seems as if for every nose Cullen’s former pupil breaks in some bar room disagreement, or challenge, or just because apparently someone (Varric) dared someone (Carver) to do _something_ , there’s another man staunching the flow of blood from his face and begging Cullen to join the ranks.

He wants to protest the behavior, but no permanent damage is ever done, and it seems to be doing wonders for morale. Not to mention Cullen has brief recollections of having to collect rowdy recruits from The Blooming Rose, Carver shame facedly at the head of them, swaying slightly on his feet but earnestly apologetic and helpful. He’d been more a hinderance than a help with getting the worst of them stowed in their bunks, and the two who for some reason had a sprained wrist and concussion respectively to the infirmary, but it had been charming to watch him try.

He also remembers Keran somewhere in that sorry lot, thoroughly soused, with a rather androgynous looking elf hanging off of his pauldrons like a lazy cat. (The elf had gone at the first sign of the gallows, a quick kiss for each of the knights and a few coins from Kerans purse sending them on their way.) It had been the first time he thinks he saw the recruit smiling in a fortnight.

He hadn’t reported them then, and he hasn’t the heart to break it up now.

But the idea that there’s room there for him?... The younger Hawke always _did_ mention in passing, once he reached the ranks of Corporal and it wasn’t quite as indelicate, that he would enjoy Cullen’s company on some of his nightly wanderings. The rest of his motley crew had been indifferent, Agatha and a few other younger Templars, but Cullen had been warmed by the offer.

They’d become close in the Gallows, much to Cullen’s bafflement. He’d always been a good, loyal soldier- Followed regulations, respected his superiors, sought out blood magic where he might and did the Maker’s work. (For all the disaster and ruin it brought them- And the rest of the entire _city._ )

As a result most recruits kept their distance from their Captain, wary of offending his stringent adherence to the rules. The older knights kept their distance for much the same reasons, along with the added incentive of jealousy. Cullen was there barely a year before rising through the ranks, and it only helped make it harder for him to find companionship. Even something as simply as someone to break fast with in the mess hall, or play cards with on rest days.

He found himself working through days off, training in the yards, or simply reading in the library, a wide empty space around him where the young apprentices readying for their Harrowing’s didn’t dare to go.

Even Meredith had kept her distance from him.

But the younger Hawke had been like a mabari puppy, following Cullen around the training yard, too embarrassed to ask for help, but every gesture indicating his eagerness to learn. It had reminded Cullen embarrassingly of himself, when he was a bright-eyed recruit, and he’d gone ahead and shown the younger Hawke the finer points of shieldwork (which he never took too, swinging that giant _log_ of a weapon around like a brute), as well as smiting and dispellment. (Which he excelled at, even amongst the more veteran knights. And Maker bless him, the lad _did_ like to rub it in.)

The idea that he could go out and have a drink, now? After all that he’s been through?

Maybe not so outlandish.

 

“You know. I believe I _will_ go for a drink.” Cullen says slowly, after some long minutes of shuffling his reports around aimlessly, standing from his desk with a crackle of joints. The candle on his desk wavers faintly, almost burnt down to a stub over his stacks of papers.

The girl by the door doesn’t look up, her hood drifting over her face innocently. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Cullen gathers his cloak from the back of his chair for the short, but chill walk to the tavern, and throws the upstart spy a dry look. “I would _so_ hate to deprive the Inquisition of such a source of morale, after all.”

The spy looks up, her mouth very pointedly _not_ smiling. “It s a _fantastic_ arse ser.”

 

Cullen doesn’t _flee_ from his office- He’s the Commander of the Inquisition.

But Maker take it, he doesn’t _walk._


	2. The Singing Maiden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love the comments and critiques! You guys are so nice. ;-;  
> Some warnings at the end, although they're nothing big and I'm probably being paranoid. Also, this is unbeta'd and kind of clunky, so once again apologies for any mistakes.

Varric forgot how fun the kid was to drink with. How much fun _anyone_ to drink with was, really. The Inquisition was a number of things, but _lively_ wasn't one of them.

 

The lamps are still lit in the Singing Maiden, filling it with cheerful light and the smell of warm oil. It’s been a week since Carver was able to have night to himself, but Varric’s pretty sure Junior’s making up for lost time. 

_“Alright, you sodding lot ready?!”_ The Herald of Andraste, face of the Inquisition and chosen of the Maker himself says, chair clattering back. His cheeks are already flushed from drinking, and only seems to be gaining momentum the more challengers step up to the bar. Varric puts out a steadying hand to catch the chair without looking up from his drink, busy sorting out the small pile of coins in front of him.

There’s a short but resounding cheer from around the hard oak table, the top already damp and darkened with spilled beer, and scarred by bored soldiers with knives. Carver’s got one hand braced on the table, and the other around a tankard, his eyes narrowed in competition against the upstart Inquisition scout who’s _miraculously_ got a head and shoulders on the large Ferelden.

Varric doesn’t know what they feed them here in Ferelden, but _damn._ Raw bear meat and whisky? He sips his drink, and sits back. This is the fifth competitor, and he’s sure it’s only going to end _magnificently._

“Andraste help you put it away then?” Burps the scout, his beard damp with whatever _swill_ is watering Varric’s eyes from halfway down the table. “Never figgered the great _Herald_ needed a lady’s help to put his drink away.”

“Mate, your _mother_ helps me put it away, nights I’m too drunk to do it meself.” Carver sneers back, and the scouts friend immediately roar in faux outrage, chairs screeching across the floor. The tavern amid walking by deftly sidesteps to avoid some of the more rowdier customers, unconcerned with the noise and more focused on collecting her tips than keeping the peace. Yet. Varric’s sure if a few more glasses break she’ll change her tune.  
Someone, a woman half in her armor and half in her casual wear, gets up with a grin, smacks a table officially on the table with a shouted, _”Drink!”_ , and the two men immediately tip their heads back and begin to drain their glasses.

 

Varric’s shaking his head, and it’s that way that the Commander finds them.

 

“Curly!” Varric waves cheerfully, as the rest of the bar pounds the table in rhythm, both the Herald’s and the Scouts throats bobbing whilst they glare over the edge of their glasses. “You came just in time!”

“I… See.” The Commander looks slightly worn, his face sunburnt across the nose from standing out with the soldiers all day and eyes bloodshot from paperwork, but Varric’s honestly just happy to see him out of that stuffy office. Even if it’s some awful hour at night, and only to join them for a drink. Althoug he’s surprised that he came down at _all._ Not when there’s even the slightest bit of work remaining to be done.

Cullen comes to take a seat beside Varric and the dwarf scoots over to make room for him on the crowded bench, shoving Carver cheerfully aside. Which the kid hardly notices. He likes to think that the two of them have become friends in the past couple months- What with Cullen coming to keep him company between rounds of interrogation, and the odd game of chess that they’d kept up even _after_ Varric had talked his way out of Inquisition custody. He certainly gets long better with him than the Seeker, or his two slightly scary lady companions anyway.

The man is dressed down, in just his leathers and cloak, the heavy armor no doubt left in his room. Good thing too- With how full the tavern is, Varric’s not sure the bench could take the extra weight. But he seems pleased to be here, not desperate for a drink or at some sort of nervous tipping point. In fact, the Commander’s eyes are fixed on Carver, and Varric’s not sure if the fixed expression on his face is distaste, intrigue, or some sort of weird mixture of the both.

Varric notes with a writers eye that either way, the Knights eyes don’t leave Carver’s upturned throat and flushed face, hair disheveled and nose pink.

 

_Interesting._

 

The minute that Flissa comes around with a cup of red for the Commander, Carver looks over, and Varric can see the _exact_ minute that he realizes the Commander has sat two seats down from him.

His eyes go wide and he makes a muffled sound of surprise, and- concentration lost- sputters beer down his mug and manages to get the glass down to the table before he immediately starts coughing like a bellows.

The cheers of triumph from the Scout and his friends practically shake the rafters as the man finishes his drink, and leaps to his feet with both arms outstretched, while the men thump his shoulders and jeer at the defeated templar.

Carver wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, competition momentarily forgotten, and starts to jump to his feet, looking nothing more like a mabari who’s master had come home to find his slippers in tatters.

“Er, at ease Hawke.” Cullen says, leaning over to grab Carver’s arm and force him gently down. He still seems uncertain and embarrassed, half standing. “I’m just here for a drink. You’re perfectly at right.” _And I’m no longer your superior,_ Cullen doesn’t add, but Varric can see it in the torn expression on both mens face as Carver slowly retakes his seat, face burning.

That brief flash of loyalty and awkward embarrassment is something Varric hasn’t seen in a while- Since it was aimed at the elder Hawkes back, with Meredith threatening the apostate. And hadn’t _that_ been a romantic plot twist, when Carver had stepped forward and stood up to his Knight Commander, jaw set and eyes flashing angrily.

Varric remembers which Knight Captain had been right behind him as well.

“No, he’s _not_.” Varric replies to Cullen, finishing off his own drink and shaking his head. “Just lost me two sovereigns.”

 

The party winds down slowly in the presence of the Commander, who seems to enjoy the company of the increasingly affectionate Hawke, as well as the friendly conversation from some of the men. Varric doesn’t hold him at fault for the sudden peace over taking the tavern- It was starting to get a little too rowdy for his tastes anyway. And judging from the free drinks Flessa’s desperately throwing their way, for the barkeeps tastes as well. If this is how she treated them when they had the Commander keeping them company, Varric was damned if he wasn’t going to drag the man out with them _all_ the time.

Hawke’s three sheets to the wind and cheerfully has his arm around Varric, leaning around him to talk to a slightly flushed Cullen about some girl he knew in Kirkwall. The conversation seems dangerously close to maudlin, but thankfully Carvers never been that kind of drunk, and only seems a bit sad.

The real mourning will probably come later, when he sobers up.

Judging from the conversation the girl they both knew is a mutual acquaintance, possibly another protégé of Cullen’s if the look on his face is anything to go by. So far there’s been stories of drinking, ill timed visits to senior knights quarters, and apparently one incident at the Storm Coast involving an Antivan leather merchant that Cullen hurriedly shushed, ears turning bright red and Carver grinning smugly into his cup.

 

“She was a right terror-“ He pauses briefly, and Varric tenses until the danger of something unexpected coming out of the kids mouth passes, and he simply continues on. He shores up the listing man with his shoulders and a slightly put upon expression. He can still reach his drink, however, so he allows it. ”- Agatha was. Kicked my arse all around the training yards- You ‘member!” Carver finishes, rather tipsily. He reaches for his drink again, and Varric pushes it slightly out of his way, leaving him grasping and briefly confused.

Makes him miss home, really. And just knowing he’s going to lug the kid to bed and throw a blanket over him almost brings a tear to his eye.

“She was a good knight.” Cullen confirms, looking briefly stricken. His fist is clenched tight enough around his mug that the knuckles whiten, although Carver is thankfully too drunk to notice. “We- _They_ deserve better.”

“She deserved _the world._ ” Carver mutters, and rests his face on the nearest surface. Varric accepts the fact that this seems to be his head, and puts up with the warm, snuffling breaths as he finally gets to his feet, dragging the people’s hero with him.

“Alright, cmon Junior, time to go to bed.”

Varric’s been drinking with Carver before.  
He knows that the man get’s _rip roaring_ drunk frequently. Mostly as a coping mechanism, and by virtue of continually trying to out drink _everyone_. His brother, Isabella, Merrill at one _critical_ turning point- That on had left the two of them giggly and handsy, separated by an exasperated Garrett and encouraged on either side by a _ecstatic_ Isabella who seemed determined to worm her way in between the two.  
If the Maker himself stepped down from the heavens and ordered a pint, he’s pretty sure the kid would ask him if he’s hard enough.

But he will never cease to be impressed by the moment at the end of the night where the younger Hawke screws up his face, takes the last drink and draws himself up, and simply sways slightly on his feet all on his own. In fact, he’s seen the man have a full conversation with guardsmen and mercenaries that he _knows_ the man doesn’t remember. He’s not sure if it’s a human thing, or a Hawke thing- Garrett seemed to be able to do the same, and assures him that his father had never had a hangover in his _life._

Cullen, however, seems slightly worried as Carver makes his miraculous ascension to standing, and stands halfway himself, bench pushed out. “I- Do you require an escort to your rooms?” He asks, and Varric tries not to wince. What a _gentleman._

Carver however, seems charmed, and leans cheerfully over the slightly squashed Varric before the dwarf can stop him. _How_ he thinks he cans stop him is anyone’s game, but the thought of Garrett’s disapproving face is incentive enough. He’s not quite fast enough to stop a determined Hawke however, and simply keeps him from getting his hands on Cullen. It does not, however, stop his mouth.

Luckily, his aim is off, and he simply manages a sloppy kiss right on the corner of the Commanders slack, stunned mouth and pats the side of his cheek. One of the soldiers who notices whoops, and starts jostling his friends, all of them jeering the two on.

Varric wishes he had a hand free to put his face into.

“ _Thank you_ Ser, but I think-“ Carver stops to hiccup, and Varric takes the opportunity to shove him up and towards the door, trying not to stagger himself. Which is doubly hard on account of how hard he’s _laughing._

“Sorry Commander- We’re hitting Orlais in two days time, have to get some good rest!” He calls over his shoulder cheerfully, ignoring Carver’s grumbled protests and digging heels.

“I- Yes, of course-“  
The last Varric sees of the Commander is him looking astonished. Carver’s drink is on its side, leaking on the floor, Cullen’s cloak on the back of Carver’s chair and his hand halfway up, still as if he’s going to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carver gets pretty smashed and handsy, although he has a very good escort that prevents anything from happening.  
> Also competitive drinking I guess?


	3. Val Royeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally speak to the Chantry in Val Royeaux.

Carver’s sure he doesn’t like Orlais.

The streets are too clean, and there’s not enough people walking around. It makes him self-conscious, slowly coming to realize why most other countries think of Ferelden as a forgotten country of dirty dog lords. Compared to this city, Denerim is a _farm yard._ Even Kirkwall, with all of it’s crime and dirty under-city, at least had buildings taller than a barn. Here, everything looks like it’s made of spun sugar and glass, with people in the nicest clothes that he’s ever seen making polite conversation in front of book shops and cafés.

For some reason everyone is wearing masks, and it puts Carver on edge. He doesn’t like not seeing people’s faces. Probably why he hates wearing his helmet. Even if Varric insists he thinks he doesn’t need it because his head is so hard. He feels visible, too- Every smudge on his face, every bruise on his knuckles, every dent in his armor is something he’s sure is going to get them kicked out of the city. Or into a shower.

“Maker’s Breath, you’d think these people hadn’t worked a day in their life.” He mutters incredulously to Varric, as they wait next to the nicest ferry dock Carver’s ever seen, for the boat to take them into the inner capitol. Absolutely _nothing_ smells like piss.  
They watch as a woman drops her fan, her entourage around her throwing their gathering dirty looks as they pointedly stand on the other side of the white stone pier. Her attendant swoops in without any hesitation to scoop it up and hand it to her, her pointed ears and sharp features partially obscured by a fashionable hood and mask. The woman titters a brief thank you, and confides something in her frilly companion that makes them both laugh.

“They probably haven’t.” Varric says, eyes hardly wandering from the clear, blue water. Carver feels bad for him- If _he’s_ uncomfortable here, he can’t imagine how Solas and Varric must feel. The only elves he sees in sight are servants, and the dwarves seem to not even be visible. Although their craftsmanship is apparent on most of the edifices and statues.

Varric looks just as pleased about himself as ever though, winking at a woman as they get on the boat, and making enthusiastic conversation with some of the other passengers. Solas isn’t bothered by _anything_ humans do, Carver has come to realize, unless it affects him or his precious _spirits._ So he’s probably just nervous and projecting.

Carver’s glad when they finally get to the gates of Val Yoyeaux, already sick of smelling flowers and leaving boot marks on white flagstones.  
A scout comes into view, and he gives them a brief nod as she salutes and kneels, only slightly out of breath from the run down the long pavilion. “My Lord Herald.”

“You’re one of Leliana’s people. What have you found?” Cassandra asks, all business. Cassandra’s hardly spoken on the trip, tense and brisk in all of her replies. But now she startles Carver with the sharp bark of an order, although the scout doesn’t even bat an eye.

_She must be nervous._ Carver thinks, although he doesn’t know _why._ She’s not the one going to get hung, Probably.  
Talking to a bunch of biddies in robes is something he would rather do without- What does it bother him if they’re making noise about how he’s some sort of heretic? They call _everyone_ a sodding heretic. If he let that bother him, he would’ve quit the Order years ago.

But even with him and surprisingly, Cullen, protesting the women had been insistent. So it was off to Orlais with the heretical herald of Andraste, the dwarven merchant author, the apostate elf, and the Seeker of Truth.

He’s still waiting for the punchline.

“Tha Chantry Mother’s await you…” The girl seems hesitant. “But- So do a great many Templars.”

“There are Templars here?” Carver asks in surprise.

“People seem to think the Templars will protect them from… From the Inquisition.” The girl says, seemingly apologetic.

“What are we going to do? Take a piss in the fountain?” Carver shakes his head, amazed. “You’d think we hadn’t been helping people for the past two months. Am I crazy? We _did_ just get finished wiping out most of the rogue elements in the Hinterlands?”

“I was there.” Varric nods. “Very heroic.”

“They’re gathering on the other side of the market. I believe that’s where the Templars intend to meet you.”

Cassandra seems grim. “Only one thing to do then.”

 

They head into the city, and Carver immediately notices people’s hesitance. One woman out right flees at the sight of them making their way to the market, making Cassandra snarl in annoyance.

 

There’s people gathered in the market, shoulder to shoulder and milling about, but they give way for the group. Especially as they get a look at Carver’s expression.  
There’s Inquisition scouts at the border of the market, and Carver feels boldened by their presence, matching the rather indecisive city guard soldier for soldier. He steps up in view of the Chantry Mother on the dais who’s speaking to the crowd, and she falters in her speech as the clink of armor and the murmuring crowd gives away his presence.  
He crosses his arms, and meets her gaze, both of their eyes narrowing.

He’s in the vipers nest now.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” She start again after gathering herself, holding her arms outstretched. To her right Carver recognizes a Templar- Devin or some the other. Rivainni, and he remembers him distantly as a good bloke. Not a drunk, never abused the mages. A bit of a kiss ass though. Templars are borrowed around often, and he did a stint in Kirkwall just before Carver joined. He’d caught him on the way out on one or two patrols together along the Storm Coast before the man was transferred to Orlais.

Which explains his torn expression as he stands at parade rest behind the Chantry Mother.

“Together we mourn our Divine, her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery!” Carver is torn between being _appalled_ that they would call Justinia _naive_ , and royally _mad as hell_ that they were still calling him a traitor. He would have _died_ for that woman. It was his _job._  
“You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well,” The woman looks to Carver with a mixture of disgust and pity. As if she’s already resigned him to a firey after life. “Wonder no more!” The crowd begins to murmur, but Carver stands tall against all the people glaring at him, the angry muttering. He’s almost positive he see’s someone pick up a rock, but thankfully the Seeker’s hot glare puts a stop to any of that nonsense, and nothing comes to hit him.

“Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell! We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond his selfish greed!”

Carver steps forward, and he knows they can see the sword emblazoned on his chest, the red talberd. They know he’s a Templar, and that he never stopped wearing the colors. Even when Leliana and Josephine hesitantly suggested wearing something more neutral, he made sure his new Inquisition colors had the sword on them.  
Even if he _failed,_ even if he doesn’t believe the Maker has his best interests at heart, he believes in the Order. That the Templars and the church can be better, and this- _woman_ , saying that he betrayed his duty? It makes him see red, and even Cassandra’s hand grasping at his shoulder doesn’t stop him from stepping forward, his brain eerily quiet even as his chest is a whirlwind.

He claps a hand to his chest in salute, and gives a nod to Ser Whats-his-name-Derin, who gives him a slightly bewildered salute back. Carver knows they do it on autopilot, it doesn’t mean anything, but it gives him a small amount of courage. Especially at the High Mother’s face, at his short respectful bow to a member of the Chantry. He comes out of it and savors the image. Like she swallowed a _lemon._

“Mother, I am simply serving the Maker in the way I see best. I make no claims to be the Herald of anything. The Church and the people have done that for me.” He keeps his words measured, pronunciation defined in the way he knows posh people like. His mother taught him _that_ at least. He knows he sounds like a sodding _ponce_ , but he feels like it might be appropriate for this situation. There’s some murmurs form the crowd, but it’s silent, everyone straining to hear what the supposed heretic has to say in his defense.

Him and Garrett came up with the funny voices in order to make _fun_ of nobles, and make Bethy laugh Putting blankets on their heads and marching around their tiny kitchen while their mother made dinner and shooed them out of her way. But Carver had been slightly exasperated to find it worked effectively when he was talking to superiors.

There’s a stunned silence from behind him, where Carver knows Varric is trying to pick his jaw up from the ground, and he tries not to let it bother him. You’d think his brother had a bloody patent on being charming to nobs. _Did no one in the Inquisition think he had experience talking to the church?_ He’s a bloody Kirkwall recruit, of bloody _course_ he could hob nob with the Chantry.

 

“We face a _real_ threat- One that the Order is sworn to protect the people of Thedas from, even more so than the threat of blood magic.” There’s a murmur of excitement from the crowd at that, and Carver turns to take the people in, trying not to look like he’s going to throw up on his boots at so many people staring at him. Instead he turns it into stoic determination. _Maker’s Breath_ he wished he’d listened to Cullen- He’s not ready for this. This crowd is on a hair trigger.

He’s pulling it off so far though, if Varric’s and Cassandra’s faces are anything to go by. Amazed, as of a dog had stood up on it’s hind legs and started keeping bar.  
Solas, the bastard, simply looks like he’s at a mummers show, arms crossed and finger along the line of his chin. As if he’s trying to follow a particularly complicated plot.

It’s oddly comforting.

“There are _demons_ encroaching at our border- And a threat that destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I have been fighting since then, for _weeks_ , trying to keep the demonic threat from overtaking us!“ More alarmed murmurs, and he’s sure he sees a few people leave the back of the crowd. Fine. Let them go spread the word. He doesn’t give a sodding hell. ”Me _and_ my people.” He waves an arm, taking in the scouts at the edge of the crowd, looking sharp in their uniforms and parade rest. Appropriately worn and weary looking, lending his words credit. He’s starting to get mad again, his head getting hot at the Mother’s stunned face, her eyes shifting to the side towards the market entrance. As if she’s expecting someone. Not paying attention to the real threat _again_. “We’ve been helping refugees! Shutting the rifts in the sky that are spitting out demons by the _hundreds_ as we _speak_. I come to the Chantry to ask for their aid- And _this_ is what I get? A mob? A Chantry Mother telling me I’m not doing the Maker’s work? A _fuckin-_ ”

“Easy junior.” Varric murmurs, and Carver bites the words off, taking a deep breath through his nose, and easing his vowels back up to their haughty roundness. It seems to cool the fire in his chest somewhat, and he let’s the Mother’s stunned silence fill the air instead, as he takes a step back.

Cassandra gives him an angry look as she addresses the Chantry, mixed with a slightly confused tilt to her head. Like she’s not sure if she’s going to strangle the life out of him, or be impressed.

“It’s true! The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late!”

For a moment, as the crowd murmurs and the Mother considers the words and the sun beats down on the heads of the whole courtyard. It smells like human bodies and sweat, overlaid with perfume and the attention and heat both make Carver almost dizzy. But he sees hesitance in the set of her shoulders, in her eyes as they flick towards the entrance of the Market. There’s the rattle of armor, and the crowd is pushing out of the way, shouts of surprise as Carver sees the Templar’s come fully into the square, a full complement.

The Mother’s face resolves into a stubborn line, indecision forgotten and she points. “It is already too late!” Stubborn old _bat._ ”The Templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘Inquisition’, and the people will be safe once more!”

“They aren’t _safe_ you insane old-“

Carver doesn’t get much more out before the Templars reach the stage, and one of them unceremoniously _strikes_ the woman on the back of the head, sending her crumpling to the ground with a grunt of pained surprise.

The crowd shouts, and Carver draws his sword without thinking, already on his way up the stage to bloody hit _something-_

But Cassandra grabs his arm and _forces_ him back, his feet skidding briefly on the cobbles as he struggles against her. Until Varric gives her a hand and they haul him back, swearing. He may be labeled a heretic but they just hit a _Mother of the Chantry_.

Ser Whats-his Face is on the move as well, but Lord seeker Lucius stops him with an upheld hand, murmuring something.

“What’s going on?!” Carver strains against Cassandra’s hands, and finally jerks himself loose, losing his sword in the process. which Solas picks up for him, his expression one of pleasant distaste.  
Seeker Lucius’ men step in his way, forming a barricade, faces stone behind their visors. He recognizes the lead Seeker, but he can’t imagine what his reasoning for this display could be.

“Her claim to _‘authority’_ is an insult. Much like your own.” The man answers, and Carver draws himself up angrily.

“I don’t _claim-“_

Cassandra cuts him off, and Carver resists the urge to deck someone. “Lord Seeker Lucius, it’s imperative that we speak with-“

“You will not address me.”

Cassandra jerks to a halt like she’s been slapped. “…Lord Seeker?”

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s Prophet- You should be _ashamed_.” Carver can see Cassandra’s hand trembling, but beyond that she’s perfectly still. Her face expressionless. “You should _all_ be ashamed! The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!” The man seems annoyed, but he’s barely looking at the crowd, his eyes fixed on Carver, and the look in his face makes him feel sick.

_“That’s not our job!”_ Carver all but yells, and he meets the flank of soldiers like a brick wall, thankful his sword isn’t in his hand or this could have gotten bloody. As it is they shove him back, and Lord Seeker Lucius simply curls a lip at him. “It isn’t _our duty_ we’re here to _protect_ mages!“ He’s thinking of his brother, thinking of him standing against Meredith in the Gallows, blood splattering the ground and Orsino’s misshapen body cooling in the courtyard. Merrill, and her horrible ideas, the tiny cuts on her arms that were fine like silver and almost invisible against her pale skin.  
Anders.

Beth. But he’s always thinking of Beth.

“Well, glad that this is going so well.” Varric mutters as they stand their ground against the suddenly angry Templars, and Carver hears the reassuring sound of Bianca being loaded, and of Cassandra drawing her sword behind him as the Templars begin to look like they’re thinking of dealing with the Herald in a more hands on fashion. The crowd has scattered to the far corners of the market. Although, fireballs could be flying and a dragon could land in the square and Carver’s sure they wouldn’t leave _this_ spectacle.

_**“Be silent!”**_ The Templars immediately fall back at Lucius’ barked order, at parade rest, leaving Carver glowering helplessly- He’s pacing, and can’t seem to _stop._ “If you came here to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. And they will not have you. You are no longer a member of the Order, _Hawke._ ”

Carver feels like someone has splashed ice water over him, his anger dissipating. 

Cassandra says something, but he doesn’t hear it- Can he do this?

Andraste’s tits- _he’s the Lord Seeker_ , of course he can do this.

“You are _dismissed_. You are a _heretic_ , and a _fraud_ , and the Templar Order will not have you in their grand design. The _only_ destiny here that demands respect is _mine._ ”

“You’ve lost your way.”

It takes a moment for Carver to realize he’s the one speaking, but when he does, it doesn’t surprise him.

He feels drained- The anger will probably come later. He can almost feel it coming back, but he holds it off. He knows it’s not the good kind of anger, the kind that gives him the ability to stand against this. It’s the bad kind, the kind that causes him to go out and fight something, _anything_ , just to get it to hit him back.

So he holds it off, pushes it down and lets the cold remain in his head so he can _think._

“I don’t know what you’ve planned, but this _isn’t the way_. Kirkwall fell for this kind of thing, mages against Templars. And now we have a _real_ crisis. There are _demons at our door_. Are you going to bloody well let them on in?!”

He yells the last at the gathered Templars, raising his voice to be heard even in the back and actually _shoving_ one in frustration. The man staggers, but no one draws their swords. Not until they’re given the order.  
He can see the milling in the corner of his eye, as a few of the armored men look at one another, and he fancies that it’s hesitance in the set of their shoulders, and the loosening of their clasped hands.

Seeker Lucius, who must see this as well, stalks forward, suddenly livid where he’d merely been disgusted before. Carver stands his ground, his feelings running cold for once, determined to make them _see_ , this isn’t a Templar’s right.

“You _idiot boy_ what would you know about it?” Ludius draws up, and Carver doesn’t move, even when their chests almost grind against each other. “You can be no more than two score years, and you think to preach to _me?_ The _Lord Seeker?_ ”  
They’re nose to nose, and Carver can feel himself shaking, fists clenched and sword lying forgotten on the pavement where Cassandra and Varric had held him back. Solas’ staff remains on his back, but he can see the mage clenching his hands, and can feel from their closeness that he has spells ready.  
_I’m 29 you patronizing twit._ He thinks, but doesn’t say.

He’s not afraid. But he feels like if something doesn’t happen, if the tension in his body doesn’t go _somewhere_ he’s going to bloody _snap._

Lucius seems to release a breath through his nose after a long moment. He shuts his eyes almost gently, and Carver can smell something sweet on his breath in the time it takes for his breath to gust over him. Something that actually raises the hair on his neck and sends shivers down his back. “The Breach is indeed a threat.” Lucius takes a step back. And then another, and Carver lets the tension run from his body, prying his nails from his palm. “But _you_ certainly have no power to do anything about it.”

“But-“ Ser Delrin ( _That’s his name, Delrin!_ ) says, and Carver is impressed by the balls he must have to be speaking up at a time like this. Lucius turns to coldly regard him. “Lord Seeker… What if he really is sent by the Maker? What if-?”

Lucius doesn’t even answer him, simply throws one last reptilian look over them all, and turns to leave, his men assembling to follow him. One of the men- Who Carver recognizes as the absolute _bastard_ to hit that old Mother, comes up to Delrin with a grim expression.

“You are called to a higher purpose! Do not _question._ ” He barks, and Delrin looks suitably chastened, throwing Carver one last look through the throng of retreating men before following the Lord Seeker.  
Carver is shoulder checked a few times, but he’s strangely not as upset as he normally would be.

He still feels hollow.

He was a Templar. When he joined the Order, and stood his vigil- It was the only thing he felt like he’d done _right._ The only thing he’d ever done for _himself._ Something he was good at, where he could make a difference, as little a difference as he could make.

And that was gone.

“ _I_ will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void. We deserve _recognition_. Independence! You have shown me nothing- And the Inquisition, _less_ than nothing.” Lucius says all this as he passes by the crowd, as well as Carver, who has to strongly resist the urge to at least _punch_ the bastard. Just to show willing. “Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!”

And as the last rattle of boots leaves the market, Carver feels Cassandra’s hand on his shoulder. 

 

He looks over at her, but she seems just as lost as he is.

 

################

 

They recover in one of the cafés, the server fluttering anxiously over their table while Carver takes his sword off, letting it drop to the ground, and throwing himself in a chair with a groan.

Varric hops up in his seat, waving the girl over effortlessly with a finger. Bless her, she’s already blushing. “Listen, get us three hot drinks of something sweet.” He drops some coins on the table with a clatter. ”And here’s a silver if you put something extra in there. Something _strong._ ” He tells her with a wink, and she nods, disappearing the coins and whisking their coats away to a back room. If she has any problems serving a dwarf and an elf, it isn’t in her face or manner.

She wisely leaves their weapons alone.

“Hawke-“ Cassandra begins, her eyes fixed on the table. Her elbows are resting on the wood, fingers clenched into her arms, but she’s determined. Carver cuts her off, putting a hand over his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

Varric makes a dubious noise, and Carver shakes his head behind his hand. “I _am._ ”

“The Lord Seeker-“

“Is in his right to exile me.” Carver says, slightly more quietly, and Cassandra falls silent. Carver removes his hand as the girl comes back with their drinks, nodding surly thanks as she places a delicate carafe on the table, along with three tiny, elegant teacups. There’s intricate scrolled filigree along the edges, and it only makes Carver more depressed- Seeing something so beautiful in his blunt, nail-bitten fingers. Steam gently rises from the amber surface of whatever the girl had cooked up for their raggedy party. Smelling like honey, with soft notes of vanilla and a sharp bite of alcohol. Antivan brandy, if he’s right.

What is he even _doing_ here.

“You do not need to have this mans approval to do good work.” Cassandra says, as they sit and sip quietly. There’s a good tot in each cup, and Carver’s glad the girl left the carafe. “The Inquisition needs you, even if the Templar Order does not.”

“They’re not the Templar Order.” Carver says, and both Varric and Cassandra share uncomfortable looks. “They’re _not_ \- All that shite about being recognized? Independence? You know just as well as I that that’s not what Templar’s do. Hell, we don’t even hold _titles._ ”

“It is… Troubling.” Cassandra agrees.

“More than troubling, Seeker.” Varric says, draining his cup, and reaching to pour another. The dwarf seems shaken. Even Solas has a small furrow in his brow, cup held to his lips as if he’s forgotten about it. “The worlds gone to shit, and every defense we have against _whatever_ it is, is falling down.” He drains his cup again, and Carver preemptively takes the carafe, throwing his friend a dirty look.

“There is still us.” Cassandra says simply, sipping at her tea, back straight and eyes hooded. Her and Solas are a picture, Carver thinks. Both of them regal in their own sort of way at the table, the trees in the yard sending dapples of cool blue and gold across their faces and shoulders.  
Makes him feel like a scrub. And also like he should’ve taken Cassandra’s advice and gotten a hair cut.

“Yeah.” He sighs instead, bringing his cup to his lips. “There’s still us.”

 

That’s when an arrow goes through his cup, a message tied to the shaft, and shatters hot liquid all over the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's sort of a headcanon of mine that Carver has anger problems. Or at least impulsiveness issues. Although I'm sure they didn't diagnose stuff like that back then. Actually, there's a lot of headcanons being thrown about here. I hope doesn't step on too many toes. :')


	4. Red Jenny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the trail of Red Jenny is familiar at least, even if he doesn't get a new pair of bracers at the end of the chase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had trouble writing this, if only because I feel like there's going to be a lot that Sera and Carver have in common. Their intro is the LEAST I want to write.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night time doesn’t bring much better.

His mood is dark as they follow the trail of Red Jenny, starting with the arrow and ending with handkerchief stuffed in every crevice of the bloody High Market. The impending meeting with First Enchanter Fiona in Redcliffe, as well as the invitation to Madame Vivienne’s parlour the next day burning a hole in his pocket doesn’t make him feel any better.

Just more people to sneer at him.

“I’m about sick of Orlais.” Carver says conversationally, as they quietly make their way down to the arbor garden where supposedly Red Jenny is going to meet them. He’s kind of excited bout that, actually. Red jenny had been in Kirkwall. In Lothering. He’d even heard someone swear in the Frostbacks once, and red Jenny had been thrown in there. (Not in a very nice way, mind, but it was still recognition.) It’s night time, and the harsh autumn heat has given way to the cooler, damp night time, a thick cover of clouds obscuring their journey around town. There’s enough night time flowers hanging over their heads from trellises and flower boxes to still make him sneeze irritably though, their petals small pale blots in the dim light.

“I’m sure Orlais is sick of you as well. We will finish our business here and head to Redcliffe to meet with the First Enchanter.” Cassandra says, her hand on her sword and eyes fixed on the shadows. “We will need all the help we need to officially close the Breach.”

“Or the Templars.” Varric points out, causing Cassandra to roll her eyes.

“Yes. _Or_ the Templars.”

They get to the open courtyard, spreading out with Varric covering the exit, and Solas firmly ensconced between Cassandra and Carver. The light hum of his barrier ready to be thrown over them practically tingles Carver’s teeth, but he ignores it in favor of poking around the crates and corners he can see out in the open.

No sign of Red Jenny. Or the guards.

That is until the trellis on the other side of the courtyard rattles, and carver realizes it was a gate.

“Shit.”

“The Herald! Kill them!”

 

Carver takes all of his pent up frustration from the day, that twisted, hot feeling in his chest that’s been plaguing him since he saw the look in the Orlesians eyes as he stood up to the crowd, and takes off at the guards swinging. The first one goes down with his shield nearly cut in half, and his arm gone at the wrist. 

He’s screaming, but Carver’s already at the next man, kicking under his guard to smash him in the kneecaps with heavy hobnailed boots, and bringing his pommel down on the back of his head with a sickening _crack_ when it brings his upper body cringing down in pain. It leaves his guard up to catch the sword that comes down at him, now that the other soldiers have gotten over the shock of his head long rush.

“At your back!” Cassandra calls out, effortlessly taking three arrows on her shield, before pirouetting to snap the archer bows and slash across their breastplates in one smooth motion. Carver’s at the center of the melee, drawing most of the fire and combat, a silvery veil settling over him as Solas casts his barrier, as well as setting glyphs at their feet that send a few men down when they try to come up behind them.

Carver turns, taking in the sight of the _huge_ armored figure that comes sideways through the trellis, a war hammer set across his shoulders and a helm blocking his face.

He looks up. And _keeps_ looking up, eyebrows raising. Holy _shit._

If the man had horns, he’d easily pass for a qunari. Hell, Carver has half a mind to check for some filed down ones under the mans helmet, as he hefts his sword and whistles sharply to get the giants attention, feeling a grin spread across his sweaty face.

Right after he cuts him down of course.

 

There’s a blur of motion after that, a familiar passing of time that Carver gets when he _really_ gets in the motion, his sword swinging almost rhythmically, Cassandra taking out anything at his back, while Varric takes the weak points in anyone’s armor he sees, as well as covering the retreat.

Carver’s not used to a mage that is quite so passive- His brother was a force mage, sending out invisible cages to crush enemies to a pulp, or vortexes of force that could send qunari flying like balls of crumpled paper. He’d also dabbled in lightning magic, saying he found it neater than fire, and much easier to produce than ice.

Also he liked the flash and boom.

In comparison, Solas is downright quiet. Although that doesn’t make him any less useful, Carver admits, as another sword simply skids off of the invisible barrier over his skin, and he simply gouts their neck open while they stagger off balance. Not to mention the few times Carver has come close to faltering, and the mage had sent out a pulsing boom of magic that seemed to wreath them all in a green energy, putting a right pep in their step, as Varric liked to say.

The giant finally goes down with an _impressive_ crash, his armor opened like cheap tin and his maul lying on the ground feet away where his fingers had becoe too nerveless to hold it.

Here’s arrows bristling out of him like porcupine quills, and Carver’s breathing like bellows, fists on his hips and head back as he gulps air.

“ _Phwoo._ Maker’s _breath_ that was a big one.”

“You did well.” Cassandra says grudgingly, and Carver glows at the praise as Varric begins patting down some of the bodies for any information. As well as money- He’s not too good for it. “Although we will have to work on you defensive technique. Have you never even _heard_ of blocking?”

“Shields slow me down.: Carver insists, scowling, and Cassandra glares right back.

“With your _sword_ , you silly boy.”

Good feelings gone, he rolls his eyes and they make their way to the gate at the far end, his sword still in hand.

The fire ball that whizzes past his head simply bounces off of Cassandra’s suddenly upraised shield, and he can hear Varric swearing and patting his leather jerkin out. Before the posh bastard that threw it can do anything else Carver clenches a fist, and thrusts it _out_ , the dispel going out with a waver like a heat mirage and knocking the masked wizard right on his arse.

The way he flips over a bush is very satisfying.

There’s a squawk and a rustle as he tries to right himself, and Carver rolls his eyes, and hits him with another. This time he’s silent.

“Was that entirely necessary?” Solas asks, his expression one of distaste and Carver shrugs.

“I dunno. They throw a fireball at me, I smite them. We can worry about the right and wrong of it later.”

“You’re pretty good at that.” Varric mentions, as he goes over to poke at the unconscious noble. The man groans, but doesn’t move, his mask askew and silk shirt smoking slightly. He’s a noble, probably never been smited in his _life_ , Carver thinks, trying not to be too annoyed.

Carver had a few times- Cullen had demanded it. He insisted you had to know what it felt like before you could use it, and even without magical ability, the gut-punch to his lyrium reserves had sent him to his hands and knees. He’d been slightly more reserved with it than some of the Templars as a result. Some of them seemed to think it was like a polite interruption of spell casting, using it at every little disagreement they’d had with the Circle mages. When in actuality it was incredibly invasive and disorienting.

Cullen had apologized profusely afterwards, but Carver had waved it off. He understood now why it was important.

“Cullen is a better teacher than I thought.” Cassandra agrees, and Carver gives her a grin.  
“Glad I can do _something_ you aapprove of.”

“Do not get used to it. You swing your sword like a common thug, and you’re manners leave much to be desired.”

“What the _blight_ can I do to please you, you uptight-“

“Wow. Wot. A. _Mess._ ”

Carver and Cassandra both cease their argument to spin and take in the new intruder, an elf woman picking her way around the crates and statuary with bare feet. “You’re the herald then? Phwoar. Bigger than I expected.” She puts a hand to her brow, making a show of tilting back to take in Carver’s scowling face, and stained armor.  
She’s wearing rough leathers dyed motley, her light colored hair hacked off haphazardly as if with a knife. Her face is delicate, like most elves, and ears almost over sized. Obvious city elf, both in mannerisms and accent.

“Who the sodding hell are you? And who’s this?” Carver jerks his head towards the moaning figure in the bushes, and the elf laughs delightedly at fancy shoes sticking up out of the leaves.

“Oh, I _like_ you.” Carvers suddenly, and vividly, reminded of a mangy old stray that followed him home to the Gallows in Kirkwall one day when he was out on patrol. Incredibly affectionate, incredibly violent, and very determined to keep him in it’s sights at all times. Eventually, when he refused to feed it, it had tired of his attentions, and started in on Paxley, thank the Maker. But the few weeks he’d been an unwilling cat owner had _not_ been ones he’s willing to repeat.

He’s really much more a of a dog person.

 

Carver glowers at the elf, and she holds up her hands defensively, although the grin doesn’t leave her face. She’s _entirely_ unafraid of him. He’s not sure if it’s refreshing, or humiliating. “Right, right, introductions and all that- Cause you’re all _fancy._ Mister big bad Herald with his fancy pig-sticker- They’re gonna have to wait though, your _glowiness,_ because _we_ have company coming.”

She steps back, pulling an arrow out of her quiver in one smooth motion, bowing graceful as any Orlesian noble towards the pile of crates and supplies taking up space in the center of the courtyard. Carver tries to fight the smile from twitching the corners of his mouth, but he’s sure he’s failing. “My name’s Sera, this is cover. Get around it, because reinforcements are coming, Don’t worry though!” She grins wickedly. “Someone tipped me their supply shed. Heh. And _they’ve got no breeches._ ”

 

Carver feels like maybe he could come to like cats.


	5. Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get all of the character introductions out of the way! That's what this work in the series is mainly for- I'll be covering most of the missions and such in other parts! I'm going to try to make most of these read alone, but like always, you'll probably get more if you read them all together. :)
> 
> I love all of the comments and kudos! You guys are really helping me out.

~~~~~~

 

The good feeling of really getting down and smashing some heads in doesn’t last, when he’s presented with his next order of business. Which is talking to Madame Vivienne.

Even her name sounds intimidating-.And a First Enchanter? Carver’s met First Enchanter’s before. Not a good record.  
This time Carver bothered to wash his face and polish his armor, a dark matte metal rather than the shined silverite normally used for chantry plate mail, with the darker olive talberd of the Inquisition colors. He prefers it almost. Much easier to get the drop on blood mages, when the glint off of your armor isn’t drawing every bear and demon in a five mile radius.  
The flaming sword is still emblazoned on it, but from what he understands Madame Vivienne is a supporter of the Chantry and the Circle, so it might help his case some.

He’s keeping the symbol. His training is as a Templar. He can keep the sodding sword at least, if he can’t rejoin the order. And if someone has a problem with _that_ , they can come to Haven and say it to his face.

The man in fancy pants at the door announces Carver as he arrives, his head still ringing from the last minute advice Cassandra and Varric threw at him on his way up the drive.

_Don’t swear._

_Don’t eat anything unless everyone else is eating it._

_For the love of all that is holy Hawke, **don’t smite anyone.**_

Nobody trusts him, and it grates a bit. When there’s demons or bears, sure, let Carver go at ‘em- But if there’s nobles, better hold his hand.

It only makes him more determined that nothing go wrong tonight, taking a glass of champagne off of a tray as it goes by, and nodding at a few of the Orlesian aristocrats that are milling around the foyer. He doesn’t see the First enchanter yet, so he makes some small talk while he waits. He doesn’t smile easily at the best of times, but makes an effort for now, smiling pleasantly at some of the people talking and snacking on the delicate pastries and hors d’oeuvres.

Everything is glittery, and it makes his palms sweat.

“A pleasure, ser. We so rarely have a chance to meet anyone new.”

The accents are different, but the words are the same. Carver remembers the times he’d be stiff backed and helmetless against the walls of the Keep during some soiree or meeting that required Chantry presence, him and his fellow recruits standing guard as the Kirkwallians in fine dresses and robes mingled around the grand conference hall. He’d be helmetless, and wasn’t that just blatant, the fact that they hand picked some of the tallest and “strappingest” lads, as Agatha laughed once, to present themselves to the nobles.

It’s where he got most of his practice talking to nobles, with Meredith’s glare from across the room threatening _weeks_ of latrine duty if he so much as said the Maker’s name in vain. He’d learned a lot, not making an ass of himself in front of people who seemed to think of him as a curiosity, at best, and affront at worse.

As well as fending off awkward advances of Highborn mothers presenting their daughters to, as they said, “one of those wayward Amell boys”. Tittering into their handkerchiefs and talking wistfully about that empty mansion up on the hill, and how _lonely_ he must be, so far from Ferelden, and isn’t his accent just _quaint?_

“it is always the same crowd, at these parties.” The Orlesian man in the mask continues, his face indistinct and voice muffled faintly behind those _creepy_ masks everyone seems to be wearing. “You must be a guest of Madame de Fer? Or perhaps Duke Bastien?”

“I received an invitation, yes.” Carver says, carefully putting on his posh voice. After the incident with the Templars, Varric had taken him aside and helped him practice, insisting that if he’d known Carver was that good at faking, they might have been having _much_ more fun this whole time. “Although I can’t stay long. Business to attend to and all that.”

The woman standing with the man, her bosom a mass of ruffles and her waist cinched into a neat handful laughs slightly. She doesn’t have a fan, which is a nice change of pace. He’s sick of talking to ink-painted birds, or flowers, or whatever it is Orlesians put on the stupid bloody things. He wasn’t sure, they always waved them too fast for him to make out. “Oh yes, you are very busy! I’ve heard the most wonderful tales. I can’t imagine half of them are true.”

“Well, that depends on what you’ve heard.” Carver says with a smile, suddenly nervous. Shite, they could have heard anything.

Hopefully not the tavern song.

“Is it true that your brother blew up the chantry in Kirkwall?” The woman asks, and Carver can hear the morbid curiosity in both of their voices. The man shoves her, making a faux gasp of outrage and giving Carver a conspiring head shake, but he ‘s starting to suspect they’ve both had a few. “And I hear that he killed a _dragon._ A mage, no less. The Champion of Kirkwall!”

“Myrcella, _please._ ” The man rests a hand on her arm, and gives Carver a confiding look. “Do forgive her, she’s been all a flutter about meeting the Herald. She’s a _huge_ fan of the book.”

Maker damn Varric Tethras.

“I’m sure not a word of it is true.” Carver scoffs, scowling into his glass.

“But the dragon?”

“... Well, that part was true enough, I suppose. I was there.” He admits grudgingly. For _that_ one at least. He’s going to have to give the damn thing a read, and figure out what he was upset about Varric for before he got blindsided by something he didn’t want to be known by the public. He’s sure there’s going to be a list. “But dragons aren’t so hard to handle once you get used to them. I mean, they’re big, and _yeah_ they breathe fire, but it’s just a little bit of heat if you’re fast and don’t stay put too long. They kick like cows do though, hard to get close enough to stick ‘em, and once you get past the wings their joints aren’t too badly armored, so it really just goes right in. But then you have to worry about the teeth of course…” Carver trails off of with his increasingly enthusiastic explanation as he notices the silence from his audience. The woman’s drink is halfway to her mask, but she doesn’t seem in any hurry to bring it the rest of the way.

He can’t see their faces, but he imagines they’re not too interested. “Er. Anyway.” He coughs into his fist, and pointedly _sips_ his champagne, and doesn’t slam it back like he _desperately_ wants to.

“The Inquisition is truly a ripe subject for many tales! I am pleased you do not disappoint, Herald.” The woman finally settles on, sipping as well, and tilting her chin down towards the ornate rose shaped buttons on her collar. Carver’s briefly at a loss. With the mask, it’s hard to tell, but is she…. Flirting with him?

He finishes his drink in one long drain, ignoring the small disgusted noise from Cassandra he can just _hear_ in his head.

Thankfully, or not thankfully, they’re interrupted by a commotion and a rude noise on the stairs.

“The Inquisition! What a load of pig shit. Washed up sisters and crazed Seekers. No one can take them seriously.” Carver turns to glare at the man coming down the stairs, his grip on his glass tightening fractionally. The two he was talking to give him twin looks of anxious concern, but don’t move to interrupt the newcomer. He’s clearly either got a bug up his arse about something they’ve done, or he’s drunk.  
Or both. “Everyone knows it’s just an excuse for a bunch of political outcasts to grab power.”

_Yes. You know, when I was sleeping in the third stable of the week lest night, with a blood demon scratching the door outside and mud cakes up to my knees, you know what I was telling myself?_ Maker _do I love political power._

“As I’ve told the Chantry, and as I will tell you and anyone who asks Messere, I’ve made no claims to holiness.”

“Ah, In front of all these people, you admit to being a pretentious usurper!” Carver’s grip tightens again, but thankfully he’s the only one who can hear the faint _tnk_ , as his glass cracks slightly. “We all know what your pretend Inquisition _really_ is. If you were a man of honor, you would step outside, and answer the charges!” Is this a duel? He’s heard of people being challenged to duels, but he’s never really seen one outside of a shitty novel or play. Orlesians.

Carver is fairly sick and tired of Orlesians treating him like he’s dog shit on the bottom of their boot. He’s suddenly _very_ enthusiastic at the idea of picking this man up by his feet, and maybe dunking him in the swan shaped fountain he saw out in the drive. Just a few times.

Still calm, he takes his cracked glass, and sets it on a servants tray, taking another glass off of it, draining that too before setting it beside the first, and turns back to the right _arsehole_ that’s standing at the foot of the stairs like he’s ready for someone to applaud him.

It may be his imagination, but he’s sure he see’s a split second of nervousness in his eyes, as Carver takes two meaningful steps towards him-

Right before the man is frozen in ice.

“My dear Marquise.” There’s a faint murmur of people in the ballroom, some of them seeming unsurprised at the interruption, others rolling their eyes, and a few hiding small laughs behind fans. Carver’s the only one alarmed, and he slowly draws his hand away from his sword as the sound of heels gently tap down the stairs. They’re marble, and it makes an elegant contrast to the sound of chattering teeth and whimpers coming from the mass of ice.

“How _unkind_ of you to use such language in _my_ house. To _my_ guests.”

The woman coming down the stairs is beautiful, Carver notes. A mage, clearly. Even if she hadn’t displayed the magic, Carver can smell it on anyone. The sweet, faintly electric tang of lyrium, the faint lifting of hair he gets on his neck and arms.  
And even without that, she’s confident in her steps, practically exuding power and confidence. Her outfit is just as ridiculous as any Orlesians, but rather than look silly, Carver finds himself reminded of a spider. Or some other dangerous, venomous creature. Perhaps a dragon. The faintly spiked collar, the horned mask that accentuates the high, graceful curve of her cheekbones and lips- It all serves the purpose of _intimidation._

_Speaking of dragons…_

“You know such rudeness is… _Intolerable_.”

“Madame Vivienne… I- I _humbly_ beg your pardon.” Carver’s surprised she left his mouth unfrozen. And impressed.

“You should.” Madame Vivienne some to a stop in front of the Marquise, fingers tapping along his shoulder and making a faint brushing motion as she sighs. There’s still no move to interrupt her form the crowd, most of them seemingly entranced by the whole song and dance. He’s sure they’d treat him dropping trou and doing the Anitivan tango with the same amount of rapt attention.

“Whatever am I going to do with you my dear? My Lord, you are the wounded party in this whole unfortunate affair.” Carver realizes with a start that she’s talking to him, and tries not to jump to attention like a naughty school boy. “What would you have me do with this foolish, _foolish_ man.”

Carver’s silent, suddenly feeling the attention of the whole room on him, and realizes that she’s put him in this position on _purpose._

It’s a test.

What he would _like_ to do, is accept the man’s insincere offer of a duel. Take him outside and maybe throw him in a few bushes, and take out some of his frustration with Orlesians that way. Buncha bloody mad cats. 

No way he was serious, however. More likely he intended to call the guard, or had an assassin waiting outside, or something equally underhanded that would make Carver look like an idiot. And possibly ruin Madame Vivienne’s shrubbery.

“Just let him go. I have no quarrel here with Orlais, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Carver shakes his head as Vivienne lets the enchantment drop, and the man drops to his knees in a brief shower of ice that glitters under the bright chandeliers like a rain of glass. He’s shivering, but Carver turns away from the sight so he can follow Vivienne, who beckons him away from the party with two crooked fingers and absolutely no look backwards.

With his heart in his throat he follows, trying not to feel like a knight in the den of a dragon.

 

The halls are silent, only a few servants seen bustling around, and they give no concern to the two of them beyond a polite curtsey of bow, which Carver returns with a brief, befuddled nod. They reach an ornate hallway lined with mirrors on one side, and windows looking our onto the fragrant, lush garden on the other. The appearance makes it that of a hallways of mirrors, all surrounded by flowers. Even by the light of the moon, it casts everything into a silver and blue light, the shadows black and the flowers pale dots. He can even small jasmine over the expensive small of floor polish and dusty antiques.

Vivienne looks like master of her domain, and it makes Carver feel like a fumbling child.

 

“Allow me to introduce myself darling. I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, and Enchantress to the Imperial court.”

“I’m- Um. Sorry about the trouble.” Carver offers awkwardly, even more intimidated by the enchantress now that there’s no one else around to divert her attention. Her eyes are sharp, yes, but he doesn’t feel half of the ice like disdain that the noble arsehole had suffered.

“It is no trouble at all my dear- I do hate rudeness. And you are such a polite young man” Now he _knows_ he’s blushing, because his face is hot and she’s smiling. “A Templar? That seems to be left out of the tales.”

“Yes.” Obvious, with the armor and all. ”I trained in the Free Marches, and was stationed in the Gallows before being assigned to the Church of Sacred Ashes. Going on seven years service now.”

“Hm. And an Amell no less. Not the heights of refinement, but I suppose we may have _something_ we can do with you.” She seems to be scrutinizing him, and to his embarrassment, actually circles him, fingers tapping chin thoughtfully. He thinks he looks alright, although he has a singe in his pommel wrapping, and he’s pretty sure his armor’s been chipped. “With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry’s in _shambles._ Only the Inquisition might restore sanity and order to our frightened people. As the leader of the last, loyal mages in Thedas, I find it only right that I lend my assistance to you.”

“You would lend your loyalty to a Templar?” Carver blurts out, brows wrinkled in confusion. He understood that from what rumors Leliana picked up, Vivienne supported the Chantry. But something in him remembered Orsino, and Cullen’s dark references to Kinloch. Mages and Templars- They may be able to get along, but alliances like this weren’t usual. Solas didn’t count, since Solas didn’t seem to really care about Templars in at all. He’d give them a wide berth in battle and let Carver thump them, while he kept the worse of the fight off of their backs, but beyond that he seemed unconcerned. He’d never met a mage so unafraid of a smiting in his life.

Vivienne simply laughs.

“My dear, who else would be better to restore order than a member of _the_ Order. Oh, do ignore Seeker Lucius- I can see the wheels turning in your precious head. Once a Templar, always a Templar.” She says at Carver’s troubled expression. “If it _really_ means that much to you, you will be reinstated soon enough, when this is all over, have no doubt.“

He decides not to touch on that, the wound still too new and fresh. “And what can you bring to the Inquisition?”

“I am well versed in the politics of the Orlesian Empire. I know _every_ member of the Imperial Court. Personally.” And probably had their balls in her hand, no doubt. “I have all the resources remaining to the Circle at my disposal, and I am a mage of no small talent.” Carver could tell. This close, he could put her right around Garrett’s strength, magic wise.  
Not quite as brutal, but definitely sharper. More refined, with an extra sort of treble that set his teeth on edge., rather than the rumbling, softer pitches of Garrett’s force magic.

“So you’d be our cat in the canaries then?” He thinks of how useful that might be, an Orlesian to deal with the Orlesian nonsense. But she simply smiles slow, and sharp.

“Ordinarily I would love nothing better. But these are not ordinary times. The Veil has been ripped apart. and there is a hole in the sky. It is now the duty of every mage to work towards sealing the Breach. And so would join the Inquisition on the field of battle.”

Solas would appreciate that, having some time for himself. Carver likes to have a mage when he goes out, ever since he got used to it in Kirkwall. He’d even requisition one from the Tower when he got his own squad on patrol- To both his squad’s disgust, and the mages dismay. But he’d be damned if he was ever caught in a slaver ambush without someone who knew how to throw fireballs, or heal the wounded.

“Well. Never let it be said I looked a gift horse in the mouth.” No doubt this one was full of sharp teeth, but the Inquisition needed all the help it could get. “I would be honored, if you’d join me on the field of battle.” He even gives her a short bow, glove to his chest over the sword as he would any First Enchanter, and when he looks up Vivienne seems charmed.

“Great things are beginning my dear. I promise you that.”


	6. A Magister in the Chantry

#####

 

They finally make it to Redcliffe to meet with the Grand Enchanter, after mucking around in the Hinterlands for close to a month. Carver’s not very sure on how fast these kinds of things work, these kinds of things being religious movements and revolutions, but he’s pretty sure Andraste must have been making faster progress than this.

He takes the time to mention this to Cassandra, but she simply gives him an incredibly irritated look and marches further down the path, shaking her head.

 

Unsurprisingly, the actual gate to Redcliffe is blocked by a rift. It’s no wonder word hasn’t been getting the Inquisition, if any time you stick your nose out a rage demon snaps it off. As they fall into action, effortlessly dispatching demons as they get closer to the nexus of the Rift, Carver feels a strange tingle along his senses, and falters. He knows Cassandra can feel it as well by the way she shrugs irritably, and Solas is outright _frowning._

Varric, who has all the magical sensitivity of a rock, is unconcerned.

Even he can’t fail to notice when one of the demons, who’s head Carver had chopped cleanly off, rises from the ground in a slow movement, it’s head drifting lazily back off the ground to mend back onto it’s neck. The magic surges when this happens, but Carver still swears in surprise, stumbling back as the long claws reach out to scratch alogn the front of his breastplate as if looking for a grip.

Varric sends a volley of arrows, the splinters stinging Carver’s face, and he picks himself back up shakily, only slightly embarrassed. Cassandra’s looking thoughtfully at the mostly silent Rift, which glows across the front of the gate with a deceiving stillness.

“Did you also notice the anomaly with this Rift?”

“What, the spooky shit? _Yes._ ” Carver says, drawing up along side her. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“Time magic.” Solas says thoughtfully, walking around the Rift, and carver can feel the faint motion of him extending his magic to investigate it.

He, however, is sort of sick of looking at it, and simply shuts it. In the light and flash of the rift disappearing, he can see Solas’ annoyed look, and simply shrugs at him. Cassandra doesn’t seem as bothered, hefting her shield, and giving a bang on the gates.

 

Sure enough, by the time they get in, Carver’s sure something is odd. The whole place is prickling with latent magic, and it’s like hearing something on the edge of your senses. You know it’s there, but you couldn’t tell you exactly what it sounds like.

“Anyone else bothered?” Carver finally asks as they slowly make their way through town to the tavern. Redcliffe has clearly seen better days, the people jumpy and frayed, the roads not very tended. The edges are muddy and grown over, and he’s not seen too many horses. Never a good sign in a town so recently under siege like this one. He feels like a dog, bothered by some high pitched whining and shaking his head every couple of seconds.

“Yes. Ignore it.” Cassandra advises, and Carver scowls at her back as she pushes the door to the tavern open.

 

It’s dark in the tavern. And empty. Besides the bar tender behind the counter wiping a dusty rag across her sparse shelves, the only other people there is a surprised looking First Enchanter, and her mage companion. When they’d seen her in Val Royeaux, Carver hadn’t had time to really make note beyond the fact that she’d seemed cagey, asking them to meet her in Redcliffe. And when he’d gone and found out that the path to Redcliffe was _blocked_ , he’d been slightly suspicious. Well. Cassandra had been, and he’d agreed with her when she’d explained.

But now that he’s standing there, and Fionna is giving him a funny look, Carver’s starting to suspect someone’s pulling a fast one on him.

“Welcome, agents of the Inquisition. What has brought you to Redcliffe?” The elf seems slightly bewildered, although she does make an effort to hide it. Her hair is slightly mussed, Carver notes. She looks thinner, slightly more frazzled than when they’d seen her in Orlais not so long ago.

“What do you mean, what brought us here? _You_ brought us here.” Carver saws slowly, not at all encouraged by the blank looks he’s receiving. “In Orlais? Val Royeax?”

“I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.” Fiona says back just as slowly, her brow wrinkled. “You’re mistaken.”

“They looked _just_ like you. “ Carver doesn’t add that they _felt_ just like her as well. The tingle of magic was similar. Carver found it similar to smells- He could recognize it and it’s caster once he felt it, even if he couldn’t tell you what it felt _like._ Useful when you were paranoid as he was.

Carver grits his teeth, and he can see Fionna and her companion growing slightly wary as he grows more annoyed. “Then what are we _here for?_ ”

“Whoever, or whatever you meet in Val Royeaux that brought you here, the situation has changed. The Free Mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the… Tevinter Imperium.”

 

Carver doesn’t react for a moment, looking at Fiona expectantly. Like she’s going to tack on a ‘but.’ Or, a ‘just kidding.’

There is none forthcoming.

“An alliance with Tevinter?” Cassandra sounds amazed. “Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you?” Carver thinks she has a good point.

There’s a murmur of dissent from Varric and Solas and a brief, but spirited bout of swearing from Carver, but Fiona simply shakes her head, eyes weary. “As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.”

“Then who the bloody hell _does?_ ” Carver demands. He’s sick of Tevinter Magisters, of mages to desperate that they’d broker a deal with them- Of the Templars that drove them to it.

He wants someone in front of him he can tear into, and this small elvhen woman is not that someone.

The door slams, and Carver turns, eyes narrowing at the Magister that comes in. The man is fair on sauntering, his arms relaxed at his side. The bastard isn’t even carrying a staff.

As if she can read his thoughts, Cassandra puts her shoulder to his, and the point of contact helps keep him from drawing his sword.

“Ah, the Inquisition. My apologies for not greeting you earlier.”

The man is clearly Tevinter. No Ferelden would be caught dead wearing anything nearly as grand as the ornate redskin robes, or have nearly that much jewelry. There’s a man who Carver figures for some sort of assistant, or possibly family, if the faint resemblance and expression of patient embarrassment is anything to go by.

 

“Agents of the Inquisition. Allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.” Fiona says obediently, but Carver doesn’t miss the faint curl of her lip as she says that.

He thinks of what Fenris has told him of Tevinter Magisters, and knows that she won’t do well with what she’s done.

“The southern mages are under my command. And you are the survivor, yes? The one from the fade?” Carver fights the shudder he feels as the Magister’s eyes go over him, a detached sort of curiosity in his gaze making it exceedingly uncomfortable. “Interesting.”

“Good. You’re who I need to talk to.” Carver settles on, trying to control the urge to simply bash the creepy blighter over the head and carry the Grand Enchanter out over his shoulder. Nobody he can think of in this room would appreciate that.  
Besides maybe Varric.

He doesn’t even look back at the bastard, simply signals the nervous barman for a pint, and unstraps his sword as he approaches the nearest clear spot near the bar. He leaves it leaning against the chair, setting himself down with a creak of armor and a reassuring clink of chainmail, but makes a point of being relaxed. Resting his hand across his elbow and such.  
The pinched lemon look on Alexius’ face is almost worth it. The glaring from Cassandra, not so much.

The Magister takes a seat, and makes a brief, imperious gesture at the man he came in with. “Felix, would you send for a scribe please?” Would hate to see him write anything down _himself,_ Carver thinks mutinously. “Pardon my manners, my son Felix.” The lad gives a small wan nod and a bow, before leaving to do as he’s bid.   
The Inn door is ominously loud as it slams shut, causing the mages to start slightly, no doubt already slightly nervous. Impending shipment to Tevinter to become someone’s effective servant did that to people. But Carver keeps his eyes on the viper he’s sitting in front of, tapping a finger against his vambrace as Cassandra and the rest take up stations by the side wall.

It’s odd, seeing two magisters, and not kicking the shit out of them. Carver casts back in his brain as Alexius leans back in his chair all smug, and tries to think of an occasion where he actually had a conversation with a Tevinter. That didn’t involve blades or explosions or escaped slaves.

None come to mind.

He remembers talking with Fenris, late at night at the Hanged Man, both of them deep enough in their cups where Carver didn’t fumble over every word, and Fenris didn’t lash out like a wounded animal at every question. They were both very prickly people, and any small amount of alcohol always helped them meet somewhere in the middle without conflict. Needless to say, they never stopped at just a small amount.

He still doesn’t feel like he has a complete picture of what it must have been like, in Seheron or Minthanrous. But what little he’d managed to piece together from Fenris makes him feel like anyone who isn’t smuggling slaves out of the country under their doublet is complicit, and the Blight can take the lot of them.

“Start talking.” Carver says, as the girl comes from the bar to nervously set drinks in front of them. They’re pewter, and warm as dog piss. The magister doesn’t touch his, peering at it distastefully, while Carver cheerfully and pointedly drains half in one long go.

The look of distaste is fixed back to him, much to Carver’s delight. The day a Tevinter magister looks at him and smiles is the day Carver starts shooting lightning out of his arse. This meeting is going fairly well, he thinks.

“I understand why you’re here… And I greatly admire the fact.” Carver resists the urge to leave. “But there will be a great many mages needed for such an endeavor. Ambitious indeed.”

“Us Fereldens. Very positive people.”

“Mm.” Alexius purses his lips like he’s swallowed a lemon. “There will have to be stipulations, of course. Exchanges. Favors for favors, I’m sure you understand. Templars _are_ after all, so quick to mistreat mages these days. Especially in this country.” His gaze lingers over the sword emblazoned on Carvers chest, which he makes no point to hide.

“Well, we’re not the Templars.” Carver points out, slightly uselessly. “Cassandra Pentaghast is a Seeker of Truth, but you wouldn’t say the Chantry is having anything to do with us, will you? Varric’s with the Merchants guild,” He gestures at Varric, who’s whistling cheerfully and scribbling in a notebook. Probably a transcript, since Carver doesn’t bring bloody _scribes_ with him, because he’s not a _ponce._ “But so far we only have maybe half a dozen dwarves joining our cause.” He says all this in a slightly exasperated tone over the sound of Felix coming back in. Sans scribe. “I’m a Templar- That has nothing to do with this.”

“No. But you favor their values, I’m sure.” Alexius has a narrow eyed gaze about him, and Carver’s growing increasingly sure that he’s working up to asking some outrageous price. “How long were you stationed? Seven years? Enough time, I’m sure…” Alexius trails off as Felix approaches their table, and Carver half stands as he comes closer, noting an ashen cast to the younger mans face that looks worse the further into the room he comes. The man stumbles, and Carver makes it the rest of the way out of his seat in time to catch him, grunting slightly under the weight.

“Felix?” Alexius is up as well, watching in surprisingly henpecked concern as Carver settles Felix against the table gently, feeling entirely lost with the sequence of events. 

“My Lord, forgive me.” Felix says, voice wavering slightly and looking embarrassed, batting Carver’s hands away. Carver lets him with a snort.

“Are you alright?” Alexius asks, and Felix nods shakily, not meeting his, or Carvers, eyes.

“I’m fine Father.”

Alexius doesn’t look convinced, and to Carver’s shock, cuts the meeting short, moving decisively to help Felix up and to his side, supporting his sons weight with an offered arm. Felix still looks embarrassed, but also less shaky. His knuckles are less white on Alexius’ sleeve. “Come. I’ll get your powders. Please excuse us, friends. I will have to continue this some other time.”

Carver, who’s not fooled one bit, knows that this mage has no intention of lending him their mages. Mages gotten by taking advantage of desperate need. So he simply bites his tongue, watching their backs retreat from the Inn. Out into the bright, stupidly cheerful bloody sunshine.

 

Paper crinkles in his hand, and he finally unfolds it, the expensive paper still sweaty and slightly crumpled from Felix’s palm.

 

“Come to the Chantry. You are in danger.”

 

He’s never needed a message handed to him to know _that._

#####

 

There’s a tevinter magister in the chantry.

 

As the doors creak open, and the pinprick feeling of the Fade magic prickles over Carver’s face and arm like a warm bath, his first thought is, _this is some kind of joke._

His second, there’s no punchline, but someone somewhere _has_ to be laughing.

His third thought is something about how this man is a surprisingly talented mage, considering most magisters Carver has faced resorted to blood magic at the slightest inconvenience to their plans of world domination.

Tevinter magic is something like Qunari magic, in that it tastes _entirely_ different in the back of his throat than the tame, fire steady flicker of circle magic. Qunari magis tastes salty, harsh. The bit of it he’d seen during the qunari invasion had been bitter, impersonal stuff that felt like the battering of a siege engine against his senses, and smothered like he’d thrown a bucket of sand on it. Guttering, rather than snuffing out entirely like Ferelden or Free March mages did.

This stuff that crackles off of this mage, as he slams his staff brutally through the horned visage of an envy demon? It prickles Carver’s teeth like a lightning strike, his scalp tingling with it. The envy demon fizzles into goo with a purple flash, the smell of ozone filling the air as the Rifts volley trickles to nothing, and the mage has time to turn and grin at him in greeting.

It’s a very rogueish kind of smile, and Carver finds himself thinking of Garrett.

His knuckles tighten.

The mage spins his staff showily, a very combat oriented move that Carver knows for a fact Circle mages avoid. It looks very aggressive. Merrill had been delighted when Garrett showed her how. “Good. You’re finally here! Now help me close this, will you?” His voice is casual, almost bored.

 

On principle Carver draws his sword and gets ready to knock this bloke on his arse and _sit_ on him until Cassandra could put him in manacles, or what the fuck else all they did with mages when there’s no place like the Gallows to drag them back to- But a new volley of demons bursting from the rift distracts him.  
Cassandra gives the dark skinned magister the hairy eyeball as well, but the two of them, under the careful covering fire of Varric and Solas, turn away to deal with the more immediate threat.

He keeps him in his sights though, as they tear through those demons like a well practiced hot knife, through defenseless butter.  
Carver thinks if the man moved at all to help them, he might have to smite the mage. If only because he doesn’t know him, and any strange mage casting magic around him and a rift, even if he seems alright so far, is something that he wants to dispel as fast as possible.

The fight’s easy anyway, and beyond some very contained and non-threatening self-defence, the mage lets them mop it up himself. Perhaps the fact that Carver’s wearing Tenplar armor has something to do without. Or perhaps it’s Cassandra turning and throwing him a venomous look so cold it could freeze a despair demon when he made a move to cast in their direction.

Carver closes the rift, blood still dripping off of his sword in a green trickle that looks black in the darkness of the chantry, and the flickering of the rift and torches. And in the brief moment his eyes are off of the wizard, he comes up right behind them.

 

“Fascinating.”

Carver jumps like a cat who’s had it’s tail trod on, and spins, not quite lifting his sword, but definitely bracing himself to use it. His face twists into a scowl as the mage rubs his chin thoughtfully, his eyes raking over Carver in a many very similar to the one he’d suffered from Alexius just that morning.

He still doesn’t like it.

“How does that work, exactly?” He chuckles when Carver gives him a bewildered look. “You don’t even know, do you? Just wiggle your fingers and boom! Rift closes.”

Carver doesn’t care for the tone. “Well, that’s how most magic works doesn’t it?”

The strange mage blinks uncertainly, and casts about at Solas, Cassandra, and a very bemused looking Varric. “I suppose he actually means that, doesn’t he.”

“Unfortunately.” Solas says, almost despairingly, and Carver doesn’t much like this ganging up, so he interrupts with a rude noise and a glare.

“What do you want.” Carver demands flatly, and he lets the barest traces of a smite flicker around the mage, enough to keep the flickering vibration at the edge of his teeth go away, and it causes the mans eyes to narrow. Just slightly.  
He’s handsome, and holds himself in the way that lets Carver know that he knows it. Maybe he’s slightly snappish, but he keeps thinking of other wizards he knows who hold themselves with the same confidence, and it makes his blood simmer.

“Getting ahead of ourselves are we?” The mage preens slightly, settling his staff on his back and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his _ridiculous_ robes. “I normally wait for someone to buy me a drink before I let them acquaint themselves with my magic like that.” The magister’s still smiling, but his eyes are still slightly narrowed. He does the mental equivalent of a lady drawing her skirts out from under someone’s toe, his magic receding from under Carver’s smite, and the effort softly closes around nothing,

“I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Mintharous. How do you do?”

“Pull the other one Magister.” He acts like this is a shock, but Carver ignores it. “Give me a reason not to string you up and drag you backwards through Thedas. After you brought us here. To a chantry full of demons.” He doesn’t need to add that he better talk fast.

“So suspicious. But not to worry, I’m here to help. I don’t want the world descending into chaos just as much as you- I’m sure we can align our efforts for the length of time it takes to wrap up this whole silly affair.” He strokes his mustache, arms crossed across his chest and other hand tapping his staff thoughtfully. “Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable- As I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Your mentor. The looney old codger that just enslaved the last loyal mages in all of Thedas.”

Dorian’s nose wrinkles faintly. “Mm. Yes, quite. Although technically it’s indentured-”

“And why would you do that.”

“Alexius _was_ my mentor.” There’s an eye roll in there. ” Meaning he’s not any longer, and not for some time. Look, you must know somewhere in that big thuggish head of yours-“

“ _Hey._ ”

“-that there’s danger. That should be obvious even without the note. Starting with Alexius stealing the rebel mages right out from under you. Surely you noticed the time magic? The distortions with the rifts?” Carver shifts uncomfortably. The wizard notes this with smug satisfaction. ” _That’s_ how he reached Redcliffe before the Inquisition, and _that’s_ what I’ve come to help you with.”

There’s a brief flourish as Dorian’s staff is extended behind him, and his trailing robe is flourished out from his legs so he can bow showily. 

“You’re _welcome._ ”

 

If Sera was a cat, and Vivienne a dragon, this man is a bloody mad cockerel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as I'm sure you guessed, Carver does _not_ side with the mages in Inquisition. Too many people to help. So little time.


	7. Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I haven't had internet for a very long time?? Sorry about the slow updates, but this is once again, very fun to write even if I have no beta and minimal editing. OTL
> 
> Also, more cat elves and inhuman looking qunari- They backed out of the big scary looking qunari as soon as they became a romance option?? And this to the same fandom that as a body decided Garrus was sex on legs??? But anyway, no lie your awesome comments and kudos are as always bewildering and nice even if without internet I don't have time to answer all of them! I read and love them ALL

~~~~~~

 

Carver went out to the training yard to see the new recruits.

 

Most were farm hands from down in the valley, who’d lost work due to the fighting throughout Thedas. It was hard to till a field when it was being lit on fire by rebel mages, not to mention the fact that if you hung around too long you were liable to be slaughtered.

Others still were mercenaries hired on by Josephine or Cullen, and some were simply religious zealots and volunteers. People convinced that they were the Inquisiton reborn, that Carver was truly the Herald and was going to right all the wrongs in Thedas. Embarrassing, but Carver supposed anything to get them good sword arms was alright by him. (Even if it did make him uncomfortable to scratch his arse or blow his nose anywhere one of them shiny-eyed recruits were watching him. With rapt attention.)

The only thing they all had in common was the requirement of training. Either how to work together with the same commands, how to shoot in a volley; Or how to even hold a sword the right way. It was typically over seen by either Cullen, or occasionally Cassandra. The few mages that had come in, timid and starving, were generally turned loose to do what they could. Confirmed as safe by either Cullen, or Solas, who would run them through careful series of tests for demonic influence before turning them loose among the populace of Haven.

They mostly gathering around the refugee tents, or the healers cabin. Nobody to train _them_. Not until he broke through to Redcliffe, and reached the First Enchanter waiting for him there.

Maker, what he wouldn’t give for even a hedge mage to heal some of the bloody noses they got in training. Solas only deigned to stretch his magic so far,especially for a bunch of dumb shemlen. He didn’t have time, _or_ the inclination. And he wasn’t a healer especially anyway. More of a defensive fighter. And not a single one of the mages that came in seemed to have any idea how to channel spirits.

Carver felt a small pang of guilt, thinking of Anders, and pushed it away forcefully. He didn’t think about that any more. Not even with Cullen, who was there to see the blood splash onto the flagstone. Not even with his brother- He’s sure if he brought it up it would _destroy_ Garrett, more than it already had.

 

It wasn’t quite winter yet, but this high in the mountains Carver’s breath still plumed out slightly, going so far as to frost the fur in his cloak if he brought it up to his mouth for too long at night time. when he was out drinking; Or simply standing on the ramparts, staring out across the sky to a distant green glow over the mountains.

Thankfully, with the sun up high, the temperature was perfect for the training yard, the cold biting on the lungs as the soldiers worked hard under Cullen’s careful eye. The clash of swords and shields was practically deafening as the last drill of the day was run, what looked like the second to newest recruits. They were getting better, Carver noted, but that didn’t change the slightly irritated look he could see on Cullen’s face. Probably wishing for a squad of templars. Or maybe a few Seekers, if they could be dragged from wherever they were holed up.

Carver offered him a wave, and grinned when it was distractedly returned. The Commander was looking tired, dark bruises under his eyes and a tremor in his hands that Carver noticed only when he held a cup. (The fact that his hands were mostly in the folds of his cloak, or crossed over each other to keep them from being visible wasn’t lost on Carver.)

But that could have been just sleeplessness, which he knew any Templar could suffer from. Sometimes, to Carver’s annoyance, headaches could keep him up right into the small hours of the morning until he took his monthly dose.

But still, it did his heart good to see his former Commander once again in front of an army. As ragtag and new as it was. There was a set to his shoulders, that he’d missed seeing since the Gallows. A furrow between his brows like he was working on a puzzle, or trying to decode a particularly hard book every time he looked out over the field.

 

He watched Cullen watch the soldiers for a bit, scowling and waving off the requisitions officer who seemed to want to speak with him. For a while there was the familiar white noise of steel on steel, Cullen barking out forms and corrections, his second walking the line of soldiers to demonstrate or tilt an elbow. His bubble of quiet was burst by the slightest scuffle of footsteps behind him, startlingly close in the bare packed earth of the Haven training field.

 

“That the Commander?”

 

Carver didn’t _jump._ But anybody who lived in Kirkwall during Qunari occupation couldn’t hide a tension in their shoulder when a qunari the size and shape of a mountain managed to sneak up on them. _Silently._ Makers Breath.

He hid the motion in a stretch, backing away from where he’d been propped up against the rail. Judging by the amused look on the Bulls face, it wasn’t very convincing. “Er. Yeah, that’s Commander Cullen. You’ve met him?” Carver asked, turning to talk to the Iron Bull directly.

 

They hadn’t interacted much, beyond a bloody, enthusiastic and slightly manic meeting on the Storm coast, where Vivienne had shook her head at the two of them, and effortlessly blocked any Venatori blood splatter with barriers. Sera had been enthusiastically splattered the Venatori blood. Suspiciously close to Vivienne’s snow white robes.

Carver had been flush with victory, and happy to give the mercenary band a chance. Probably the point of the whole thing, get his blood pumping. If his reputation had preceded him, than any soldier worth their salt would know the best way to get the Herald in a good mood was to throw him in a fight. Qunari he knew were surprisingly perceptive like that- The Arishok, for instance. That big fellow that the Viscount’s son had been suspiciously friendly with. That son of a bitch in Lowtown that short changed Carver for three months on leather, before he’d grown wise.

 

The Bull looked like any other qunari- Bigger than most, admittedly. He had the usual, black sclera in the one eye Carver could see, the other covered by an eyepatch with a small amount of ridged scarring visible underneath. His nails were filed down from the usual almost-claws into neat and even squares, his hands strong and scarred and capable. Even in the brisk mountain air he was shirtless, showing big thick slabs of muscle like a dockworker, rounded and bulky from long hours of use.  
His horns were… Impressive. And dangerously ironic.

 

Carver had been just as impressed by his mercenary team as the man himself, a seemingly close knit group that had iron- heh- discipline, as well as a good natured obedience to their namesake that told Carver most of all he needed to know about the qunari’s character. A friendly, amiable commander who left most of the discipline to his second in command; Although his word was law.

So Carver was sure to give the qunari a respectful nod, and a friendly open look. He was still uncomfortably aware of how hard his heart thumped when a horned shadow appeared on the ground next to him, but he wasn’t an _asshole._

“Sure I met the Commander. He gets that same stick up his ass look that you get. Is that all Templars, or just the ones around here?” Carver opened his mouth, surprised and a little indignant. “Hehehe, relax, it’s just an observation. I’m sure you guys are the life of the party- More than the life of, if I’m hearing the word around camp right.” He gave Carver a speculative look that had him glaring back, defensive. Over what, he wasn’t sure. His drinking? Which wasn’t something even Josephine had bothered to bring up; That was his best clue that it wasn’t a problem. His Commander? More likely. He did have a soft spot for old Cullen.

 

“I’m glad you’re here, though.” Bull finally said, almost startling Carver, who’d slowly let his eyes be drawn to Cullen sending the recruits off to water themselves and take a breather. he ran them hard, if the steam rising up from their over worked ranks were anything to go by. “Gives me time to show off my men- Krem! Quit beating that training dummy and get ready for an ass kicking!”

There was a rude gesture in reply that had Carver raising an eyebrow, but Bull simply laughed loudly, before seeming to be struck by an idea that had him scratching a horn contemplatively. “Hey, why don’t you join us in the ring for a few rounds? Let us get a measure- Krem, how about the Herald gives you a hand? Two against one, maybe you’ll get lucky.” He hollered across the sandy pit of the training ring, and received another rude gesture, combined with a muffled sentence that Carver couldn’t even begin to make out. He’s assuming it matched the gesture. 

“Perfect.” Chuckled Bull.

The chargers had made themselves at home pretty fast in the week or so they’d been there. Grim and Rocky both with tents, Dalish quartered near the stables where she could hear the horses; And Skinner had simply disappeared into thin air, appearing at regular intervals for meals, and to terrify any soldiers she found off the beaten path. Which was very few, after the first few encounters.

But they’d become regular features, and most everyone had acclimated to the presence of the mercenaries- From the crowd at the singing Maiden, to the soldiers ignoring their bawdy banter on the training field. Carver knew that he should keep that delicate peace while he could, even if it cost him a little bit of face.

 

And that’s how he found himself standing braced in the training pit, his winter tunic abandoned over the post, trying to represent a united front with Krem, who was also bare chested and puffing hard, both of them covered in sweat as Bull effortlessly spun his _giant sodding axe_ in one hand. It had only been two bouts, but Bull was already giving them both a concentrated look of disapproval out of his one eye. Carver tried not to let it rankle. He was slightly less completely scraped up than Krem, if only because he still had his small shirt on. although otherwise the two of them were just as muddy and miserable as the other.

carver has the sneaking suspicion it was planned on Bull’s part- There’s nothing that binds people together faster than a mutual ass kicking. Something Carver always got, that Cullen seemed reluctant to accept in the Gallows. He’d barely said more than three sentences to the bloke, but Carver’s already planning the drinks he’s going to be buying the lieutenant, when they drag each other up to the Inn.

“Geez. It’s like you’re not even trying.” Bull said, feigning an eye roll. Carver was pretty sure he made gestures with his eyes about as twice as much as someone with a full set. The wave of irritation that over took him, frustration at not being able to get past the qunari’s seemingly _impenetrable_ guard, as well as his taunting, caused him to give a small growl and charge the giant, ducking low in a move that had generally worked for him before. Krem gave a short sharp, “ _Hey-_ ” But it was too late. Carver wasn’t a green recruit, he knew how to fight a qunari.Go in quick and fast and chop them off down low.

But either Bull wasn’t much like other qunari, or was used to human tactics, because he nimbly avoided the blow, handily disarmed Carver, and sent him tumbling back into Krem, sending the two of them into the dust with twin _oomphs_ of pain and surprise. For probably the tenth time that day. Cullen had given up the training yard in favor of lining up with the rest of the soldiers, as well as anyone else who had been drawn to the spectacle after their lunch. He was leaning against the rail, smiling faintly, and Cullen felt a blush burn his cheeks.

 

“Sloppy, Herald. Sloppy. He always like this?”

“Unfortunately.” Came Cassandra’s small, amused reply, and Carver threw her a glare from his position under Krem, who seemed to have given up on moving. And life in general. “Perhaps you can knock some sense into him- Maker knows I have been trying for weeks.” Her careful accent was thick with amused scorn.

Unfortunately, Bull’s cheerful dismantling of his defenses and dignity had drawn a larger than usual audience, and if Carver wasn’t suffering along with every other soldier in Haven, as well as Krem, who seemed resigned to it, he’d be more embarrassed than he was.

 

“Well, I do fine out in the valley.” He hesitated. That sounded too defensive. “And in Kirkwall. I’m not a _child_ , you patronizing nug lickers.” Shite. Predictably, Bull gave him a dismissive once over.

“Oh? So you saying you’re done learning? Nothing more to know?” The qunari captain sounded bored, eyes wandering the crowd, and Carver wasn’t sure he’d been saying _that_ exactly; He wasn’t done learning, he guessed. Although he hadn’t let Cassandra pin him down long enough for that parry lesson, and Josephine insisted some noble was going to figure out he was making fun of their etiquette _eventually._

Carver set his jaw mulishly, glancing away to avoid the question and settling his sword down slightly. The only warning he got was a small, amused sound from where Krem was still on the ground, before there was a blur of motion coming towards him too fast for him to step back of block. It was similar to how he think crabs felt, when the tide came in. Confused, and probably slightly spun around- And then he was flat on his front with his arm twisted up, eyes watering in pain and dust clouding his vision.

 

“Bloody _fucking hell_ , alright! Let me up you bastard!” He gasped, and the Bull just chuckled again, loosening his hold, but not quite letting him up. Cassandra was openly laughing, and Carver was livid that _now_ she laughed. The whole time he knew her, and all it took was a sodding huge qunari sitting on him to get her to loosen up. Maker.

“Really? You mean, you don’t know how to make me?” Bull sounded amused, and Carver tried to fight a shiver as he chuckled lowly, grinding his arm up a hair and causing him to- alright. _Whimper_ slightly, because this big fat bastard was going to _rip his arm off._

“I can teach you plenty, Hawke. It doesn’t have to be hard. Although,” Bull’s voice lowered, privately. “I have to admit, I was always a sucker for the hard way.”

 

Carver had a brief flash of maybe Bull pinning him down in other ways, irresistible to think about once Bull brought it around to his attention. And to his bewilderment, an immediate and hot reaction started in his gut, centered somewhere around where Bull was bending his arm back and pinning his chest to the ground with his good knee.

 

It was enough to startle him into doing something, confused and hot and frustrated. And plenty embarrassed.

Carver drew in a deep breath that was almost a gasp, and mostly dust, before finally the irritation and anger seemed to give him enough strength to twist like a snake, biting Bull’s hand placed by his head. The startled grunt and flinch was all the advantage he needed to jerk his head back and bust Bull’s nose, with the notoriously hard back of his head.

 

_’Take that the hard way, ya bastard.’_ He thought smugly, rolling clear, and then charging back at Bull to get an arm around his throat and his legs around his waist while the huge mercenary was blinded by blood and pain. He was grinning, and managed to get an arm up between Carver and his stranglehold, keeping him from cutting off his air. But thankfully, Carver was a big lad, and managed to drag him down to the ground with him, where things were a little more fair.

He was no where near done with him.

 

“Don’t kill him Bull, we need his glowy bits.” Krem reminded, as he dragged himself up to the railing clear of their scuffling and swearing, mostly on Carver’s part, and accepting his shirt and tunic from a Cassandra who looked as if her birthday had come early. He pulled it on, and it immediately blotted with sweat as he joined everyone in watching, ignoring the brief exchange of coin going on around him.

 

Carver hadn’t expected anything much, but he was happy to have at least broken Bull’s nose and he was pretty sure he got a tooth, if the way Bull was dripping blood from his mouth was any indication.

Bull, on the other hand, had gently, and humiliatingly subdued him yet again, and this time, he literally sat on him.

Carver rested his face in the dirt, just for a bit, panting for breath. He tasted nothing but dirt, but oddly enough it was something he was used to. He liked to think anybody with older siblings was probably depressingly familiar with the taste of dirt.

 

Bull hummed contently. “You done?”

 

Carver mulled it over, and simply slapped the ground twice, turning his face to give Bull a resentful glare. “Fine.” The grip loosened slightly, and Carver fancied he could hear his shoulder creak as it went back the way it way it was supposed to. “But I’m _not_ using a shield. It’s big, bulky, and gets in the way.” He added, defiantly, and not a little petulantly.

Bull gave him a slow grin, standing up, and putting down a hand big enough to engulf Carver’s almost up to the wrist, in order to give him a hand up. He stands him up like a toy soldier, theatrically dusting some of the coating of dirt off of Carver’s shoulders and straightening his hair as the change of money in the crowd was completed, accompanied by groans and small laughs of triumph. Carver bore it with gritted teeth, glaring at a Cassandra, who was receiving a sovereign and looking incredibly smug.

Bull took a step back, and gave a brief snort, sending blood and spit splattering into the ground once he felt like Carver was presentable. (He wasn’t.) The mercenary cracked his neck and gathered his gear, already on his way out of the ring and looking unconcerned with the crowd.

 

“Do I look like a guy who uses a shield?”


	8. The Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently playing through my second Inquisition playthrough, and goddamn it's much easier the second time around. Also the first time I'm romancing Cullen, so...
> 
> This is the last chapter! Next is the part I've been looking forward to writing the most (besides the Hawke part haha), once this was out of the way. Therinfall Redoubt!
> 
> Thanks so much for all the kudos and comments everybody, this final stretch was really hard for me, and I'm sure it shows. (Anybody who wants to edit, hit me up.) I'm not used to putting things online publicly, and every time I get a kudos or comment it warms my cold little heart. I'm spectralsleuth on tumblr, so if anybody wants to chat about dragon age, talk fics, or whatever, also hit me up.
> 
> #####

******

“Something bothering you Junior?”

Carver ignores Varric, pretending not to have heard the dwarf over the sound of his jingling reins, and the convenient burst of birdsong from a nearby tree.  
Not too hard, since he’s been urging his horse faster to stay ahead of the group all day. The bad tempered horse is normally all too eager to slow down and take it’s time, giving him what he swears is dirty looks over it’s shoulder. But with the smell of wolves still strong around them from a small skirmish earlier, it seems all too eager to prance up ahead, ears swiveling and tail lashing.

It’s amazing that even with all of the warfare going on in the countryside, there’s still animals to make a nuisance of themselves. Most notably, bloody stupid _wolves._

“It’s only, we’ve been on the road for a day now, and you’ve barely complained at all.” Varric continues, urging his burly little pony on faster with hardly a glance. Carver grits his teeth and tried not to roll his eyes. “No bitching about the weather. No complaining about my _wonderful_ stew, which I know is your favorite past time-”

“It tastes like balls rolled in ants.” Sera pipes up from behind him, sticking her tongue out and gagging theatrically.

Varric raises a thick eyebrow at her.

“Besides, meaty head ain’t upset about that; He’s upset about that letter he got from the Templars.” Carver whips around and aims a small swing at Sera, who dodges it easily, even seated as she was on Anora, her hart. “Buncha fancy nobs kicked his arse out of their fancy club, and now he’s got a bug up his bum.”

 

“Hm.” Carvers shoulders go up by his ears as Varric turns to him. He can practically hear him rubbing his stubble. “Is that so.”

“Yeeee _p_. Drew the bollocks on it and everything. Very rude, they were.” Sera sniffs disdainfully, prancing her hart closer to Carver and Varric’s steeds. She leans half out of the saddle to make eye contact with Carver, shaking her head solemnly. “Don’t worry fishface. _We_ think you’re alright, don’t we Bull?”

“Don’t know what they’re missing boss.” Bull confirmed, puffing slightly where he was keeping pace with the rest of them.

 

There was a draft horse who Bull had taken a shining to following placidly behind the group, taking a break from carrying the huge qunari. Carver felt bad about the whole thing, until Bull explained that it didn’t bother him at all. He enjoyed the walking. And he’d rather not break the only horse in the Inquisition who didn’t lay down and refuse to get up at the mere sight of him. Besides, Qunari could go much longer than humans or elves he explained.

“ _Much_ longer.” He’d added meaningfully, chuckling when Carver scowled and blushed and _refused to rise to the bait Maker take it._

 

“And Lord Seeker Lucius has the power to do that?”

“The Templar Order can, and all the Templars are with him. The commanders, the Captains. Most of the recruits that haven’t hared off.” Carver snaps. “There _is_ no Order,” He rubbed the flaming sword he still had on his vambrace with his free hand and I have no place with who’s left.”

There was silence, and Carver felt a sour bile start to rise in his stomach. The letter- defaced, and bearing an eerily accurate doodle of an angry Carver courtesy of Sera- was burning a hole in his satchel, worn and faded where he’d read and re read it. They’d gone so far as to send him an official letter of censure and removal from service. Stuffy and flowery, with some chantry mother who was hiding in the Templars skirts seal of approval fixed on the bottom.

 

The whole bloody world on fire, and they found the time to send him a slap in the face.

 

One part of him was indignant, and angry. Sodding _furious_. They said that he was a heretic claiming to be the Herald of Andraste, and heretics had no place in the Order. That he was inciting rebellion among the church and the Circle.  
_Him._ who stayed years in Kirkwall, when the rest of them went into the mountains to jerk each other off in a creepy old castle. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they started muttering about how he just so happened to be at the Conclave, _and_ in Kirkwall. And didn’t he know that apostate? The one that started this whole mess?

Another part of him, a small cold part under all the anger, felt like it was only right. His father. Lothering. His mother.  
_Bethany._  
He never had anything he loved that wasn’t taken away. 

 

Nobody said anything, clearly sensing he didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe the way he jerked his reigns and _finally_ pulled ahead had something to do with it. Bull sidestepped neatly, giving him a slightly consoling look. Even Sera snorted loudly, and spit impressively off to the side.

That normally cheered him up.

 

They didn’t encounter too many scouts, heading into the more uncharted part of the Hinterlands where the Inquisition had yet to gain ground. Leliana had sent them on some wild goose chase after rumors of the wardens, and Carver was eager for any chance to get out of Haven. He’d brought the most likely people he knew not to make a big deal out of his bad mood- Varric excepted, the nosy bastard. But Carver had a hard time leaving Varric _anywhere_ , since the dwarf seemed convinced he was going to dive off a cliff or into a rift the first time he looked away.

He didn’t blame him too badly, since he’d been acting more and more stir crazy as the Inquisition grew larger. And Sera and Bull hadn’t exactly been a _calming_ influence.

Any four walls he was in seemed to press in, lately, and he needed to get _out_. Even the cheerful warmth of the tavern didn’t seem enough to stave off his gloomy mood, and more often than not he found himself sulking off back to his quarters before second watch had even finished warming up by the fires; His skin one size too small and the lump in his throat too big.

 

They made their way to the encampment at the foot of the hills, one Carver remembered from earlier in the season. Now it was skeletal, the trees bare and most of the underbrush eaten away by the Inquisition’s horses in the face of the upcoming winter. It hit the valley later than the Frostbacks, but there was no doubt it was on its way. Not when every other day brought a brief spitting of snow, and the foxes and august rams he could see were wearing their shaggy winter coats.

“Hard-on says they met some village boys at the crossroads, who said there’s a warden at one of the old abandoned fishing huts. Yeaugh. _Fish._ ” Sera says, as they pass through the close to deserted camp. 

“Fishing?”

“There’s a lake up in the foothills- spring fed, I think. Or it could be all spring melt.” Varric explains, already starting his pony towards the path behind the camp. He didn’t trust anybody else to look at the maps, besides maybe Bull. Who was normally too busy picking up wolves and flinging them bodily off of mountains to stare at a piece of paper.  
Carver hadn’t noticed the path before, but it led them right up the rocky slope, and around what he’d thought to be impenetrable rock.

Ferelden was like that. Full of so many secret ponds and caves and valleys, that it was like trying to map the ocean half the time. Cave-ins, rockslides, river flooding. The topography changed about as often as the phases of the moon. He wasn’t surprised that there was a footpath he’d missed.

 

What _was_ surprising was the big sodding lake sitting on top of the cliff.

 

“How the blighting hell did we miss this?” Carver demanded, his horse nickering softly and immediately lipping at some spindleweed. It ignored him most of the time, so he wasn’t worried about spooking it as he slides off, and paces over to the edge of the water, hands on his hips and scowling out over the serene, calm lake.

The chestnut gave him an irate look and kept munching on the plants.

“I don’t know, how’d them stupid people miss the giant hole in the sky?” Sera hopped off of her hart, leaving it to graze next to Carver’s horse. Bull’s draft horse was already wandering a little ways away, no doubt sensing the end to their journey, and leaving large soup bowl sized divots in the lake mud with it’s hooves. Last was Varric’s pony, a shaggy sweet animal that enjoyed the taste of anybodies hair that it could get a hold of.  
It bullied the larger horses aside, and cheerfully shoved it’s face in a bush, tail twitching happily.

Carver led the way around the lake, leaving Dennet’s well trained animals where they were, and focussing on getting through the mud without losing his boots. How Sera was prancing around practically bare foot, he didn’t know.

 

There’s a man outside the cabin, and some rangy looking blokes arrayed in front of him in a mockery of rank and file. Most of them were clumsily holding shields or swords, splintered bits of wood and cured hide in a typical Ferelden fashion. The definition of homespun. They could have been any boy from the village.

They looked like him, ten years ago.

 

“Warden Blackwall?”

 

The man turns, and Carver’s struck by how imposing he appears in that split second, back straight, eyes narrowed over the intimidating expanse of black beard. But in the next moment it’s gone, eyes widenign in surprise and a hint of alarm as he looks at ll four of them, and back at the lads, stepping away and putting a hand on his sword.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” He stands sideways, stepping up and glaring to Carver. “Who sent-”

 

There’s a familiar whistle, and before Carver can blink, a shield comes up and blocks the bandits arrow that had been shooting for his head.

“That’s it.” The villagers look unsure, sick with excitement and a few heft their weapons as the bandits charge from the tree line, yelling. Bull lets out a whoop of excitement as Sera disappears in a whirlwind of limbs, hers and Varrics arrows coming from everywhere as he swears a like a sailor, and rounds a stump large enough to give him cover. Bull charges, and the first bandit goes airborne.

“That’s it.” Blackwall lifts his sword and knocks the arrows off of his shield in a practiced motion, one Carver’s seen Cullen and Cassandra do countless times. “Help or get out. We’re dealing with these idiots first.”

Carver nods in agreement, a grin spreading across his face as he lifts his sword and charges, joining Bull down by the water.

 

At least on this trip, Carver gets to throw some bandits in the lake. So there’s that.

 

#####

 

 

“I used to know a Warden.” Carver tells Blackwall, as they’re sitting around the fire that night.

He’s still feeling hot, thrumming with energy after the good tussle they had with those bandits. Bull is sitting across the fire, sharing something out of a flask furtively with Sera, while Varric rolls his eyes.

Blackwall seems shy, he thinks, his chin tucked down and eyes focused on his hands as he whittles away at a piece of wood. The glow of the fire casts his face into warm oranges and deep blacks, and it reminds Carver of nights on the wounded coast, before everyone was comfortable enough to enjoy the company. He doesn’t like it, but knows better than most that it’s better not to force these things.

 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Stupid arsehole, he was.”

Warden Blackwall raises an eyebrow while Sera snickers, but Carver simply sighs and dips the ladle back in the pot, helping himself to a little more of the stew. It’s mostly water and flour, with a hint of nug and herbs Sera had gathered. (Why he trusted Sera to gather herbs, he didn’t know, but he was fast suspecting she’d simply yanked up a handful of weeds and hoped for the best.)

“Well. Warden’s aren’t like regular people- We’re impartial, you understand.” Blackwall said slowly, not removing his eyes from his carving.

“Yeah. _Real_ mysterious like.” Sera belches loudly, setting her bowl off to the side, and leaning back, patting her belly. She gives Blackwall a long, considering look. “It true you eat darkspawn?”

The warden gives Sera an incredulous look. “What?”

“You know, chomp chomp, _mmmm_. Do you _eat_ -”

“Maker, _no_.” He sets his knife down. “Who in the bloody fade told you _that_?”

Sera turns and gives Bull, who’s determinedly looking down at his bowl, a dirty look.

 

Carver feels ill all of a sudden, and carefully sets his bowl of stew aside.

He doesn’t talk about it much, but Ostagar wasn’t exactly plums and roses. And just talking about darkspawn and eating in the same sentence makes him feel like chucking in the dirt. Much as Carver enjoys eating anything and everything he can get his hands on in the way of most any Ferelden who’d had an older sibling, the stew is going to have to wait for another day.

Bull probably senses this, and helpfully takes the remains of Carver’s stew, bobbing it gratefully before putting it to his face and draining it. Noisily.

“Well, what’s the point of being a warden with no dark-whats its to fight? They’re all gone, aint they? What’re you doing hanging about for?” Sera cracked backwards, taking another long draught of Bull’s flagon when it was passed, and scrunching her nose up at the burn. “I say it’s time for a new gimmick. Get this- _nug farming._ ”

“Wardens don’t need Darkspawn to be Wardens.” Blackwall’s grumbles, gesticulating strongly while Sera rocks back on her heels and looks appropriately interested. Carver’s sure any minute she’s going to do something disgusting, and grimaces. “That’s like saying you need to be _in_ Ferelden to be Ferelden.”

“Unless you got exiled from Ferelden.” Varric murmurs, sipping at something in his mug. He doesn’t react at all to the glare Carver gives him, just lets his eyes linger briefly, before turning innocently to Blackwall.

He didn’t ask for a heart to heart, _thanks._ Garrett might enjoy that shite, but Carver has better things to do than have people tell him why he’s feeling the wrong way.

 

“That doesn’t change much, does it? Just means you can’t go home. Doesn’t mean you’re not- You know.” Blackwall looks down at his carving, and makes a disgusted snort when he realizes he’s ruined whatever he was working on. “Blast.”

He throws whatever it was off to the side, and starts looking through the woodpile for amore likely piece. Or more likely to get himself together, Carver thinks, noticing a blushing behind the wardens beard. He’d been on his own awhile. Probably a little uncomfortable with people.

“Hm.” Varric takes another sip of his mug, while Bull looks back and forth between Carver and Varric delightedly.

“You don’t need _Ferelden_ anyway. They can take their chant and wipe with it, yeah?” Sera says comfortingly, patting Carver’s leg with one small hand.

 

“Shut it.” He grumbles, scooting over and sullenly accepting the flask when Bull passes it to him.

 

But that doesn’t change the fact that he catches Varric smiling over at him from time to time, right up until the fire dies down to a few glowing embers.


End file.
